


City trees never sleep

by Analinea



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, Getting Together, I MEAN THIS IS A VAMPIRE STORY IT SHOULD BE OBVIOUS, I have a vague plan so I'll add tags later but fyi this story might include, M/M, Mention of blood, Panic Attacks, Tell me if I forgot anything, Vampire Stiles Stilinski, and I forgot I didn't tag it, because he never happened in this, flashbacks i guess?, for once I won't mention the Nogitsune, hurt/comfort of the physical kind, it's becoming more and more clear with every chapter that there's PTSD in there, more graphic description of blood, no sexy vampire trope, oh it'll have a happy ending, so don't come here looking for vampire porn lmao, so this is officially an Universe Alteration fic I guess? UA - no Nogitsune, some mutual pinning, this is the first time in my life I've said lmao, what a weird feeling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2020-05-14 18:04:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19278595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Analinea/pseuds/Analinea
Summary: When Stiles gets turned, the only person he wants to stay with is Derek.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter has been sitting in my WIPs since 2017 and I dug it up, rewrote it 6 times, and can't look at it anymore.  
> This is the first WIP I've started posting in my life (except for that one time back in october that made me lose my shit because my emotions were...uh. Well, you get it) so updating will be quicker if I have comments to motivate me ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> [11 chapters later note: If there's any inconsistencies, redundancy, forgotten minor points or general mistakes, know it's because contrary to my usual MO I post this as I write it and as much as I love reading my own stories over and over again (no), especially when they start being over the 10k mark, I'm bound to screw up here and there. I will maybe eventually probably come back to it once it's done and correct shit, edit more than I do on a chapter to chapter basis, but for now bear with me! You can point out my idiocy if you do it nicely (I'm delicate) :)]
> 
> So, enjoy :)

**Do you at least remember how you got here?**

**Yes. Making mistakes.**

(Chiara Bautista)

 

“You know, Scott is still looking for you,” Derek doesn't even look up from his plate. Stiles freezes with his fork hovering mid-air, shocked out of trying to quell the gnawing hunger he has been feeling for a while now.

“Yeah,” he mutters back before bringing the food to his mouth. He wants to savor it, if only because Derek Hale cooked for him; and it's freaking _good_. But nothing can stop the frantic devouring of the simple pasta carbonara in front of him.

Derek rests his elbows on the table, pushing away his own plate to cross his arms on the tabletop. He considers Stiles in silence, who resolutely avoids his eyes and curls even more over his food. “Why?”

Stiles almost doesn't understands the question but he knows Derek enough to read in between the words and the tone of his voice. It should be weird, that he _comprehends_ Derek.

“Because Scott would try to fix me.” Should it be weird, then, the way Derek seems to get Stiles too?

It's just: some events change your life forever, smack upside down your whole identity until all your old pieces make up a whole new picture. Nothing can ever repair that, Derek probably knows it even better than Stiles does.

Scott though, with the best of intentions, would try to rearrange Stiles' scattered part according to his own idea of _better_ , of who Stiles used to be; and Stiles can't face the inevitable failure of it, the disappointment. He's too fucking broken already.

He's too done with putting up a facade, pretending his heart is not painted in shades of gray instead of the black and white of the people that can condemn you. Leaving for college, then, was more of an effort to find the space to build himself according to his own values. Discover who he really is without feeling like he's _wrong_.

Some good it did him.

Hesitantly, they turn back to their dinner. But when he's finished, Stiles looks down at his empty plate dejectedly: he's still starving. The knowing look Derek gives him is too close to pity; Stiles hates it.

“I really thought–” Stiles tries for nonchalance, but his throat closes up. “It's stupid,” he forces out, “but I really thought vampires would stay bad characters out of shitty romances.” He'd cry if his body would let him. Half of what's happening to him is impossible to wrap his mind around.

Derek's internal struggle is clear to see on his face, words failing him. For a second, Stiles tries to find a bad joke to alleviate the atmosphere; his mind comes up blank. He's so tired. He's not sure he'll ever be strong enough again to be a little shit about things.

He's saved from the awkwardness when Derek sighs, shoulders dropping. “They haven't been seen or heard of in centuries, so the bestiaries still in circulation don't mention them. They're stories to scare children now. I...I'm sorry.”

“What for,” Stiles doesn't ask, finding some annoyance in him under the exhaustion; Derek and his bad habit of thinking he failed everyone, like he's the damn center of the bad karma universe or something. “It's not like you could have guessed this one, right? It's nobody's fault.” Nobody's but the bastard that did this to him, and he already paid for it. “Do you have any old book that would give me more clues than bad teen dramas?” Stiles sighs, rubbing his forehead against the mounting headache. It used to be a sign that he needs some sleep, but he knows better than to think it's this simple a problem. He can stay awake for days without consequences now, anyway. “Am I even alive?” he breathes out, eyes still closed.

“Lydia screamed.” Derek's voice is so small Stiles would've missed it if he didn't have these shiny new enhanced senses -those almost drove him mad the first days.

He looks back at Derek's clenched jaws and shifty eyes, imagining the anguish that had to come from his screamed name. The implications sink in when Stiles wonders if his dad heard it. If his dad–

Stiles blacks out from the panic that hits him like a meteorite; he distantly feels the chair hit the back of his knees though he can't remember deciding to get up. His shaking legs don't support him enough, sending him stumbling back and making the chair topple to the floor. The sound of wood crashing on tiles is an explosion that _hurts_.

Stiles' senses go into overdrive: he can't control what he hears and smells, the kitchen light burns through his eyelids like he's looking directly at the sun. The walls of his perception close in around him and he can't breathe. His lungs are run through by a stake that keeps air away and makes him drown– he's dying _again_.

The lights suddenly turn off, making Stiles jolt back and hit a leg of the chair -when did he sit down on the floor?- just before something presses on his ears. He wants to rip it off before it crushes his skull, but then he processes the blessed silence. All that's left is every burning contact against his skin and the smell of their cold food, home, acidic werewolf blood. The vice around him starts to ease off.

Then, shyly, Stiles feels something warm and alive touch his trembling fingers; the ache of the flashing hunger almost takes him over the edge again. But the intimacy of the scents he's slowly processing hold him back long enough to focus, to splay his hand under Derek's on the man's chest.

Stiles comes back to himself, one wave of a breath and beat of a heart at a time.

When he forces his eyes to flutter open, the faint moonlight pouring through the windows is as strong as a sunny day. Stiles mourns over and over again the last shreds of normalcy he used to cling to.

Derek is crouched in front of him, every worry line on his face standing out in the dark. He mouthes something, gesturing at his own ears; Stiles nods, letting him reach for he noise canceling headphones.

“Thanks,” Stiles whispers.

There's a flicker of a smile before Derek looks down. “I started it in the first place,” he says, ashamed. “Everyone knows you're alive, I should have started with that.”

“No, I knew,” Stiles rubs at his neck, still shivering from the panic. “Scott _is_ looking for me, it's obvious, I just...,” he trails off. He's been high-strung since the attack, it was only a matter of time before he crashed.

In this single moment, he wishes he could sleep away the memories. But maybe it's a good thing he can stay awake as long as he wants: at least, he can escape from the nightmares.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Between the trees, the darkness seems almost alive. Through the confusion, Stiles believes to be home for a second and it makes everything more bearable. But then, he remembers where he is: there's no streetlights in the Preserve.

His focus is completely taken by his panicked gasping -every breath reminds him of what just happened. His heavy breathing turns to sobs, then dry heaving. When he can finally inhale again, the thick scent of blood coats his airways until he suffocates with it.

Raising his head to try and get his bearings is a mistake: there's so much red around him, dripping from him, he shakes from the horror and the shock of it all. He feels deathly cold. If only he could howl like the wolves– if only he could call his Pack to him.

Only whimpers escape him. He's alone. He doesn't know what to do.

“Stiles.”

His head snaps up, hope surging through him before it's crushed by the jarring realization that he can't–

“Stiles!”

He would recognize Derek's voice anywhere, but where...? Stiles tries to scoot back, to hide, arms not strong enough to support him; he can't let Derek see him like this? Stiles has to–

A burning touch on his shoulder jerks him awake and he stops breathing completely, body warring between the need to get away and the instinct to attack. The hand withdraws.

“Breathe,” comes the soothing command. It's grating to his sensitive ears but he finds that it's instinct to follow the voice, so he does. It's shaky and irregular, but he does and he rides off the aftershocks of his nightmare until all that's left is shivers running through him.

His senses stop overloading and he can look around to find Derek sitting next to him on the couch. Stiles hadn't meant to fall asleep; everything feels worse now than it did before, headache turned to a full blown migraine. It makes him nauseated -or maybe his stomach is churning from the freshly awoken memories.

“Nightmare?” Derek asks like he doesn't already know.

“Nothing unusual,” Stiles scoffs. They all have their fair share of horrible memories replaying at night. Derek doesn't look convinced, but Stiles can't think enough to understand why.

“Didn't sound usual.”

Stiles has a snarky answer on the tip of his tongue, but he's too tired to argue about it anyway. “Sorry for waking you up,” he says instead. Deep in his bones he feels dawn approaching. The night makes him stronger.

“You didn't, I was doing some research.” Derek looks concerned, and it makes Stiles angry. He's mad because it's worse that Derek felt obligated to stay up for him, he's pissed off at the way Derek is so careful around him. It's not their dynamic, and it makes Stiles feel vulnerable.

He hates feeling and being treated like this, like he's weak -used to be for being human, and now because he's not? He's not weak anymore, he's so strong it terrifies him, he doesn't need Derek to coddle him. What happened sucks, but it's done and Stiles won't dwell on it. It's not even the worst part of it.

Stiles swallows down his anger, realizing how thirsty he is when his throat clicks. He's too scared to think about drinking anything right now so he rubs his eyes to try and alleviate the pressure. “Right,” he drawls out, “you should get some rest now. We'll look at it later.”

“I'm not tired,” Derek lies, dark circles evident on under his eyes. Now that Stiles noticed, he wonders how long they've been there. How long has it been since Derek last slept?

“Don't lie to me,” Stiles snarls, “I can hear your heartbeat too, now.” Only he doesn't need to, and Derek is too used to lie to shape-shifters for his pulse to vary at all. It's embarrassing to reveal himself like this, to show just how much he knows Derek that even his tells have become obvious.

“Alright then, let's say I don't want to sleep. I'll stay with you,” he amends.

“I don't need a baby-sitter,” Stiles snaps, regrets it when Derek turns calculating, like he's evaluating the damage. Stiles follows Derek's gaze to his own shaking hands -he clenches his fists to hide the tremors. His mood swings are getting harder to control every day. Stiles closes his eyes to try and calm down, but all he can see then is red, and he longs for it so bad it aches through all of him.

“Stiles,” Derek whispers, sounding so sad Stiles has to open his eyes again to show him he's okay. He doesn't want to make Derek feel this way, he really doesn't he just can't stop himself.

The pain in his skull beats in sync with his rapid heartbeat, so Stiles is aware of the moment it comes down. It must mean he's still alive, right, since his body still works -he has to eat and drink, and he can sweat even if he can't cry.

“Am I making it worse?” Derek asks.

“No, I don't–” Stiles raises a hand to grip Derek short sleeve, afraid he'll leave. He's not sure what he's trying to say.

“My blood, is it making it worse?” Derek insists so he can do something to help.

“Your blood,” Stiles says, “it doesn't smell the same.” He stops to think, working his jaw to release some of the tension. He runs his tongue on his teeth, relieved when they turn out to be blunt, human ones. “Werewolf blood doesn't call,” is the best way he can explain it.

“Are you saying we stink?” Derek blurts a joke, looking unsure of his attempt to alleviate the atmosphere.

Stiles lets out a surprised laugh. “Nah,” he chuckles, “you smell good, just...not making me lose my shit.” The humor makes him feel better. He doesn't add, though, that he has always loved Derek's scent only now he can smell it from two rooms over.

“Do I?” Stiles frowns suddenly, “Smell the same? Scott still hasn't found me, and I wasn't exactly subtle when I came back here.”

Derek looks down, hesitant. “You, uh...,” he starts, “you don't. I mean, you do if you know what to look for, but without looking for it, it's...,” he looks back up at Stiles, eyes full of grief.

“It's okay,” Stiles stops Derek before he can continue. He doesn't really want to know; he doesn't want Derek to keep looking like that. “It's okay,” he repeats, trying to comfort Derek. “Listen, I don't really...go to sleep, alright? We'll talk later,” he smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

He just doesn't want to keep talking about it right now. Doesn't want to wonder how different he is. He just wants to pretend that he's still Stiles -even if he doesn't feel that way.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my voice one day on a PMS-migraine:

Derek whines in his sleep. Stiles wonders if it's a recent development of if he's always done it -maybe it's something werewolves grow out of but surfaced again because Derek's life is just like that. Or maybe everyone does it to some extent -Stiles wouldn't really know. He used to be a deep sleeper.

The hours drag on but he doesn't want to move. He watches the day get brighter and brighter, trees filtering the light enough that it's bearable and drawing patterns on closed curtains. He misses the warmth of the sun but hasn't felt brave enough to test the sunlight on his skin yet; he drove for two nights and stayed in a motel in between.

Stiles crouches next to Derek's head where it's resting on the couch. He can't recognize the emotions by scent, but his own body reacts to them -the smell coming from Derek makes his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. He wants to reach out and soothe the pain out of Derek.

For the first time since he arrived last night, Stiles takes the time to consider why Derek can't let him out of his sight.

With a soft touch, Stiles runs his hand in Derek's hair and watches him settle in a deeper, more comfortable sleep. He aches from thinking about what his supposed death could have felt like to Derek, but at the same time it feels too much like wishful thinking.

Stiles sits down with his back to the couch, blows out a trembling breath. Derek's soft puffs of air fall on his neck and gives him goosebumps.

This thing they have. Stiles has never had the courage to ask Derek what it is; what it could be. And now, he feels like he shouldn't let it be real. Derek's just found his footing, he surely doesn't need Stiles to mess it all up again -though, Stiles is already doing that, isn't he?

He picks up one of the books Derek set aside so he can forget about that train of thoughts.

It's funny in some way, how it should make him anxious to look for informations that would make what he's become more real than before. How he should hate how it defines his new reality. But losing himself in research has always put distance between himself and what's happening around him– to him. He doesn't know if it's healthy or not, but he frankly doesn't care.

And depending on what he finds, he might have an eternity to come to term with being a vampire anyway.

 

As it turns out, vampire folklore in some form or another dates back centuries and comes from all over the world. Every culture has a creature that sucks blood, and the Europeans were very good at imagining ridiculous ways of becoming vampires.

But once he finds a legend that fits what happened to him, Stiles is pleased to find that most of the so-called lore from the modern age is bullshit.

“When are you calling Scott?” Derek is back to his blunter habits, and Stiles isn't so sure anymore he likes it better than walking on eggshells. He doesn't want to have this conversation -or the ones that will undoubtedly follow.

He shrugs, hoping Derek will drop it.

“He needs to know, Stiles,” Derek continues despite Stiles reluctance to answer, “he's been running himself to death looking for you. And it's only a matter of time before he comes here anyway.”

Stiles swallows down the spiral of guilt and shame until it's buried deep inside of him. “How accurate are these books anyway?” Stiles deflects. He doesn't dare looking at Derek's reaction, see the disappointment or the pity.

“Stiles...,” Derek sighs but doesn't say anything else for a while. “It's mostly bestiaries, so it's only as accurate as hunters wanted it to be. The last one is only an encyclopedia on old myths,” Derek shrugs.

“Are you trying to say vampires might not be _that_ evil? Because I'm pretty sure I need to drink _human blood_ , which is pretty up there on the scale of evil,” Stiles wants to say with humor but fails at keeping the bitterness from his voice.

Derek turns to him but Stiles still won't look. “I'm just saying if werewolves aren't the monsters they made us to be for all these centuries, there could be more to vampires too. We'd need to find a first-hand account.”

Stiles thinks about the only other vampire he ran into and wants to throw up. “Let's not,” he breathes out. He only notices how hard he's clenching the book into his hands when Derek reaches up and puts his own hand on Stiles'. He breathes until the white leaves his knuckles but the paper is torn in places. “Sorry,” he says in a small voice.

“Nothing to be sorry for. It happened to me too sometimes when I was younger.”

“I'll call Scott,” Stiles continues in the same tone, “just– tomorrow, okay? I promise. I just want to figure it out first.”

Derek doesn't point out that there's too much to figure out for it to happen in one day. His silence prompts Stiles to continue; it's a basic interrogation method that always worked on Stiles and his need to fill the quiet, even though Derek probably didn't mean to do it.

“I need to– Derek, I need to _drink_ ,” his voice breaks on the word, “and I just don't...I can't, and Scott–” Stiles sighs, his migraine flaring up with his agitation. “A part of me is scared he'll just see me as a monster that needs to be fixed or changed so I won't be dangerous to–” _who he really values_ he stops himself from saying.

He barrels through the lump in his throat that speaks of old hurts he thought long healed, “And another part of me knows he'll see me in pain and want to do something about it, and if he understands I need blood he'll find a way to make me drink some even if I tell him I don't want to. He'll act on whatever he thinks is right and I just need to be listened to right now...when I say I _can't_.”

“Whether you want to or not, Stiles...,” Derek hesitates to continue. Stiles understands that he's killing himself and that Derek won't stand for it very long. But he also knows that Derek, having suffered first hand from it, won't go against anyone's consent unless it's a last resort either -something Scott has barely started to learn these past years.

“I won't even be able to see my dad right now,” Stiles murmurs, “so I need to find _something_ , okay?”

Derek is silent for a few seconds, Stiles feeling his eyes on him. “Tomorrow,” he finally say, his words bearing too much weight to only mean calling Scott. Stiles nods, picking up a book again.

Although, judging by the knock on the door that shouldn't have made them both jump in surprise, maybe tomorrow was a little too much to ask for.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words the OC uses in italics are in Breton (a Celtic dialect from Northern France although it's a little more complicated than that but *sighs* not getting into Anne de Bretagne and shit). Though, I took the words from the 19's century dictionary so it can be far from today's language. Sorry to any Breton that made their way here by some happy accident, I love you *hugs*

They both jump to their feet– or try to, in Stiles' case. The sudden change in elevation makes him so dizzy his knees buckles and he catches the couch's arm to stay standing. Breathless, it's not until he's blinks the spots from his eyes that he feels Derek's hand gripping his forearm.

“Okay,” Stiles breathes out, righting himself and gently taking his arm back. Derek narrows his eyes but says nothing, only turning back to the door with his head held high like he does when he's in high alert. It's kind of endearing, Stiles notes, chuckling lightly despite the seriousness of the situation.

Derek glances back at him questioningly, but Stiles only shrugs.

“I can't smell a thing,” Derek frowns, walking to the hall, and that simple admission sends shivers down Stiles' spine, sobering him up again. He gives an experimental sniff of his own, but over the house's smells and every nuance of Derek's scent, Stiles wouldn't be able to tell if there's something weird.

“Stay behind me,” Derek says, hand out to keep Stiles at his back.

“I'm pretty sure I'm stronger than you,” Stiles can't help but huff, miffed. He's not actually sure it's true, but he remembers the awkward few days when his new-found strength wasn't dampened by his exhaustion and starvation.

“Not right now, you're not,” Derek raises an eyebrow at Stiles' shaking legs. “Just in case,” he placates in a softer voice, making Stiles sigh but agree more easily.

“They'd have already blown up the door by now if they wanted to hurt us anyway, right?” Stiles reasons with a smirk, not completely believing his own words. They've dealt with the kind of evil that knocks in the past, too.

Derek shrugs but offers a small smile back, stopping in front of the door with his head tilted in concentration before taking an almost inaudible breath. Stiles wonders how many times Derek had seemed composed when you really had to have keen senses to pick up on the subtlety of born-wolves tells.

He opens the door, pauses. “Who are you?” he asks, forcing Stiles to lean around him to see who they're dealing with.

The young woman looks normal; brown hair, green eyes, long dress under a short cape like the one Lydia bought before leaving for college. Stiles remembers because Allison couldn't stop gushing over it. She wears an amused smile on her face but doesn't answer, doesn't move a single muscle, seeming made of stone.

Stiles only realizes he's taken a step towards her when Derek bars the way with his arm.

Coming back to himself, Stiles feels a sense of unease that he can't explain, a pull forward. He takes a deep breath, finding that the stillness of the woman has made him hold it without him realizing it, like he mirrored her by pure instinct.

“Won't you invite me in, _dèn-vleiz_? I remember your kind to be more hospitable than this,” she says, but as soon as she's done speaking it feels like she never made a sound at all. The timbre of her voice fades away before Stiles can grasp it. She tilts her head playfully.

Derek tenses. “If you need my permission, I'd rather we have this discussion like this,” he growls.

She giggles in response, not offended in the least. “I'm too old to be bound by petty rules, but I'll do whatever makes you feel safe.” Her eyes settle on Stiles and he feels pierced by them. “For the young one's sake.” She sounds almost tender the way she says it; it gives Stiles goosebumps, the way it reminds him of his mom.

Derek's jaw clenches visibly. He doesn't like to feel bested, knowing that their sense of safety is just indulgence on her part. He hates being patronized, which Stiles can perfectly understand: it gets under his skin when he feels like someone agrees with him just to please him into shutting up.

“Come in,” Derek grits out, taking a step to the side to let her in. He doesn't trust her, but they can both recognize that if she's a threat it doesn't matter what side of the door she's on.

She smiles, bows her head, and takes a step inside that feels heavy, though it doesn't make a sound.

 

Derek stands next to the couch, arms crossed, slightly in front of Stiles who's sitting down to avoid fainting. He feels lightheaded and shaky, but he's so focused on the stranger that he can't spare a thought to his body's weakness.

She's looking at them from the armchair across the coffee table, back straight and hands politely folded on her lap, like a lady of old. She doesn't feels dangerous; Stiles still has that nagging feeling that he's missing something important but he finds himself calm in her presence.

“Who are you,” Derek repeats his question from earlier, dry tone hiding his nervousness well– Stiles can see right through him, through the tension in his jaw and shoulders, the light tapping of his foot on the floor. Derek snarls when she simply tilts her head in the same way she did at the door– she's amused by him.

“Shouldn't a host offer their name first?” She doesn't sound like someone that's vaguely threatened by a werewolf.

Stiles weights the risk of giving their names; she's already inside, and her knowing what to call them is probably the least of their concerns. “I'm Stiles,” he decides to answer, “and this is Derek. Now what do we call you?”

Her eyes land on him, making him lose his breath. “My name is Rozenn, _yaouancq_.”

“Rozenn Yaouank?” Stiles repeats with a frown. When she starts laughing, he scowls, slightly vexed that he doesn't know what he said that's so funny.

“Rozenn,” she repeats, “yaouancq is...,” she smirks, “a child.”

Stiles splutters. “I am _not_ a child,” he cries out, surprised at his own petulance. It feels familiar like an old shirt he forgot he even had, but he wonders where the energy to be so offended came from. He's not angry, or pissed, or bitter. He's like that young Stiles that didn't want to be Robin but Batman.

“Oh, but you are,” she huffs out a laugh, “you are a child that needs teaching. This is why I am here.”

“Teach him what,” Derek growls, taking a protective step.

“Didn't you have teachers too, dèn-vleiz?” she turns to him. “Weren't you guided through the moontides?” She looks back at Stiles, “We are _corrigoad_ , blood fairies, and I will not let you starve yourself any longer.”

“Lady,” Stiles retorts, “this is so not your business, I–” He freezes, noticing now that he's thinking about it that there's something missing. “I–” he tries again, but his time in confusion.

The euphoria hits then, a laugh bubbling out of him before he can stop himself. Derek glances at him worriedly, but Stiles can only feel his own heart beating harder with joy. His body, free of the craving, is high from the relief; the hunger is gone and Stiles feels free.

No wonder he was so dizzy earlier, though he realizes now it was different from the weakness of before. Before _she_ came in.

“How–” he looks at her in wonder.

“This is not for long,” she says over the sound of a bewildered Derek trying to ask what's happening, and her words should hit Stiles hard but he can't find the fear inside of him right now. He's kind of scared of the crash when this wears off, but it's too distant to care.

He gets up to grasp Derek's arm, though he's not sure what he wants to do after that -hug him?- but he barely catches his sleeve that his knees fold under him. Derek slows his descent, head turned to Rozenn. “What's happening?” he demands, booming voice loud over the drums in Stiles' ears.

“I'm helping him fight the hunger– for now. But his body is still starved,” she says. Then sighs, but it's fond like a mother faced with a cheeky child. “We have much to do.”

 

Stiles is laying on the couch that sways like a boat; but he's _fine_. For the first time in days, maybe weeks he's not sure anymore, he's fine. He takes a trembling breath, finds himself not caring about what Derek and Rozenn are arguing about right next to him. He's too tired to, too, can't find the strength to even lift his head.

Time passes in blinks, until he feels the pull again -she's sitting right next to him, looking at him with her piercing eyes. Stiles can't really focus on her, and that's when he _sees_ her.

It's like being in the dark: looking just next to what you really want to see to see it.

But then he blinks again, and he loses the real image of her.

“Do you remember what happened to you?” she asks gently, making his scattered thoughts gather to try and find an answer.

He frowns, licks his lips and finds that the exhaustion he's still feeling makes him more honest than he'd want to be. “I made too many mistakes,” he breathes out, looks up at the ceiling. “Who are you,” he wants to know, not just her name. The creature under the veil that he glimpsed just now.

She hums, gathers her hair over a shoulder to braid it -it looks like a very old habit. “I am, in a way, your foremother. See, I made a mistake too, once. Loneliness is a cruel tormentor, wouldn't you say?” She runs her fingers through her hair over and over, smoothing it out and braiding it again.

“Are you saying this is your fault?” Derek snaps, and Stiles hadn't seen him over there.

“Indirectly, yes, I caused this to happen– I'm not sure if it was years or centuries ago,” she muses calmly, like Derek wasn't breathing down her neck.

“So there's prescription,” Stiles chuckles.

“It's not funny, Stiles,” Derek says to him, but his voice is softer. Stiles can't look away from him, the way he hovers like he wants to touch and make sure Stiles is okay but can't find the courage to– Stiles wishes for it. It's like craving blood again.

“Kind of is,” he whispers, “because she's so old she can't even say when it happened.” A distant part of him warns him that it's rude to talk like she isn't right next to him. Another panics at the thought of _centuries_. But he just laughs. He's so light he's floating.

“When will I crash?” he asks aloud to no one in particular.

“You won't if I have anything to say about it,” Rozenn answers anyway, sounding hard for the first time. Like a teacher -and she did say that's what she's here for, didn't she?

“Who are you again, to stick your nose in our lives?” Stiles pouts.

“I am the winner of the race.”

“What race?” Derek comes closer.

“The race for him, of course,” she points to Stiles, “I am the teacher and I came here first, so I might manage to save you from the other player.”

“This is not a game,” Derek frowns, but she only huffs.

“Not for me, no, but for the hunter that is coming for your _gadal_ it is.”

The silence that follows is so heavy even the bubble around Stiles bursts. Derek and him look at each other, saying a million things through their eyes alone. They shouldn't be scared of hunters anymore, not only because they're stronger than them but because Beacon Hills is protected.

But maybe, if vampires are real, the threat to them is one they aren't prepared for.

“I'm calling Scott,” Stiles says, voice cracking. He wanted to do this on his own terms, not because of a crisis.

Derek finally closes the distance between them, crouching next to Stiles. He seems hesitant, but still takes one of Stiles' hand in his. “Don't worry,” he breathes close to his skin, “we'll protect you.”

“He has to protect himself first,” Rozenn interjects. Derek closes his eyes like it pains him to agree with her, because he knows what Stiles' decision had been. He opens them again and there's a question there. A wish for Stiles to keep control over the situation, as much as he can.

And Stiles thinks of Derek and his life being hunted. Thinks of the wounds and the blood, the rapid healing that didn't spare from the pain. Thinks that Derek might well be ready to die to protect him.

He thinks that he won't let Derek be hurt again; and if he needs to be stronger for that he'll do what it takes. He looks at Rozenn. And he nods.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles is staggering, vision tunneling until all he can see is a blurry figure at the end of the alley. He feels like the cold open of a crime show, and any other time he would love the irony of it. But not today.

Today, he's not sure how he ended up here -he doesn't remember where he was just a moment ago.

He blinks. There's blood everywhere. He feels it, warm on his face, mixing with the tears running down his cheeks. If only his legs would support him he'd get up and run; if only he knew where to go. Only one place comes to mind but it's miles and miles away.

He doesn't even have his phone on him. He's glad he doesn't: he would do something stupid with it, like call Derek.

And Derek would come, if Stiles asked.

The worst part is that Stiles has no idea what kind of help he's hoping for right now– no. The worst part is that he knows exactly what desperation makes him yearn for -he wants it to _stop_ \- and he knows himself fully capable of asking that of Derek.

He hates himself for even considering putting him through that twice.

He needs to get up. Feeling something cold at his back through his clothes, he realizes he's leaning against a heavy metal door and tries to grab onto the handle to pull himself up, but it gives under his weight and snaps back in place with an uncaring noise that reverberates through Stiles' bones.

He's back to sitting on the wet pavement, panting through the panic, looking around. The trees on the other side of the street look just like the ones back home. The floor under him...

It's a horrifying revelation, that it's not water soaking his pants. He starts gagging and–

He's in a golden field. There's a faraway song echoing through the lands and he's running towards it in the tall, yellowed grass. The summer heat beats at his skin but he doesn't care, he's free and young and timeless. He's laughing, turning around to find someone chasing him. Their face is unclear but he knows exactly how much he loves them.

His delighted cries are cut short by the shock of slipping and falling; the soft earth catches him in a motherly embrace but a rock juts right at the wrong place and scrapes his knee without mercy. It doesn't really hurt, just stings, but beads of blood run down his leg.

The other person skids to a stop, undefined eyes widening at the sight of red trails on his skin, panicked words falling to his ears in a foreign language he should be able to understand. Their hands hover without daring to touch. Stiles understands the fear: he's only human. Gods aren't used to fragile things.

He wants to speak, but finds he has no breath. Looking up he only sees the trees bathed in street-light.

He gasps awake.

The ceiling sways just out of focus, but the ancient song is crystal clear in his ears. He turns his head to follow the voice, finds Rozenn sitting next to the couch. The hand she's holding in hers is the only warm part of him; every other inch feels filled with liquid nitrogen. He's shivering, he distantly notes.

When he tries to move, his joints ache. He whimpers.

“You were crying in your sleep,” Rozenn shushes him, her other hand starting to run through his hair. It's soothing against the nausea he's now noticing. “I finally got your gadal to get some rest.” There's a twinkle in her eyes that Stiles doesn't really understands.

“Gadal?” he mutters, confused.

Her only answer is a soft hum. “Why won't you feed, child?”

Stiles shifts as much as he can to get a little more comfortable, avoiding her eyes. “I had the weirdest dream,” he answers instead. It felt so real he can still taste the air, can still half grasp a whole lifetime of memories.

“Weird? That's one way to qualify my memories I suppose,” Rozenn chuckles. “I was trying to calm you down, you were having a nightmare.”

“Sorry,” Stiles jerks his head back as much as the pillow under it allows, “your what now?”

She tilts her head. “Stories are the legacy of any bloodline, are they not? It's why humans have children, to keep the story alive. I am your foremother, we simply have different means of offering our pasts.”

“Did I just dream your memories?” Stiles asks, surprise replacing the hurts for a moment. “How? Did you see mines?”

Rozenn laughs, the veil on her appearance lifting for just a second, too fast for Stiles to catch anything. “Children owe nothing of their lives to their parents. I did not see yours.”

“My dad would disagree with you on that one,” Stiles retorts with a touch of humor before his words register. The deep sadness settles, heavy in his guts, again. “So what did I see exactly?” he tries to distract himself with.

“You're awake,” Derek states, Stiles turning his head to find him standing at the foot of the couch, looking like shit.

Stiles can't help blurting that truth out. “Did you even sleep?”

Derek's eyes glance at Rozenn and back at Stiles, all the explanation needed: Derek doesn't trust her alone with Stiles, then. Of course.

“A little,” Derek lies with a shrug. It makes warmth bloom through Stiles' chest, to know that Derek is so worried about him.

“You need more than a little,” he still chastises, because now he's the worried one.

Derek considers him for a second, and Stiles' not sure he likes the regret in his eyes. “Yeah, but right now we need to talk.”

Stiles licks his lips nervously. He's not ready. But if Derek asks, Stiles can't hold back very long from giving him just exactly what he wants. So he gives in.

 

“First order of business,” Stiles starts because he needs to make light of this or he'll hide for the rest of his life -however long that'd be.

“Answers,” Derek directs at Rozenn, who's not intimidated in the least, “real ones.”

“The irony of you asking someone to stop being cryptic is not lost on me,” Stiles interjects, remembering the first few weeks of learning about werewolves. Back then it had been about trust, he knows, but he can't help teasing a little.

It scares him a little, he has to admit, the return of his old attitudes– he's tired and feverish, but even then he doesn't feel the hunger as bad as he should, and he doesn't have as hard of a time as before controlling his senses.

He just wonders if there'll be anything left of him when he crashes again.

Derek glances at him, trying to appear unamused but the corner of his lips twitch just so. It softens something inside of Stiles, behind the walls of anxiety and disgust in himself.

Rozenn clears her throat, sitting there but still looking like a cut-out shape of a woman in the fabric of reality– like she's not exactly there. “I am _henaour_. First born. You call vampires a specific kind of creature, but the gods that made us are as diverse as their creations turned out to be from one another.

“All across the world, there's legends; your culture latched onto and fantasized about my kind -or, what it romanticized my kind to be,” she says, looking slightly amused at that. “I called us the blood fairies. Corrigoad.”

Stiles and Derek glance at each other, both blushing like kids in behalf of the human race.

“So,” Stiles drawls to refocus the conversation, “who created you, and where are the other first borns? And the...second, third, whatever born?”

Rozenn looks through the window, curtains drawn back now that night has fallen. Stiles supposes sunlight isn't his mortal enemy since Rozenn walked around during the day, but the luminosity still hurts his eyes.

“I am the last one,” she says, but there's no longing or sadness in her voice, she only seems lost in memories. “Or I should have been. Some of us were called back by our maker, some of us were hunted. Most were corrupted or fell into insanity because they had no one to guide them.” She looks back at Stiles. “This is why you need me. When I felt you being made, I came at once. I won't stand for another life lost because of my mistakes.”

Stiles says nothing because he understands. Derek snarls at her for her responsibility in what happened, but Stiles, he _knows_. He made mistakes, too. If she can't be forgiven, he's not sure about himself. But whatever her crime may have been, it probably happened long before Stiles was even born.

It makes his heart beat faster. If his penance is surviving centuries while everyone he loves withers and dies, he's not sure he's brave enough for it. “How– you said you weren't sure, but you _have_ to have an idea, right? How long–?” He can't finish, but she understands all the same.

She opens her mouth to answer. Before Stiles can have his answer, though, he hears an engine sound that makes both Rozenn and Derek's head snap to look outside. But while Rozenn glance at them questioningly, Derek grimaces. He looks at Stiles and visibly steels himself for the bad news Stiles feels coming.

“It's Scott.” He closes his eyes like he doesn't want to face Stiles and adds in a broken voice, “And your dad.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be completely honest with you guys I have no idea what time of the day it is in the story anymore haha ten points to your pokemon team if you can tell me  
>  **Thank you to everyone who commented I love you!**

The panic hits fever slow, cotton lining Stiles' very bones and diffusing everything through his whole body. He finds he has no breath anymore, wonders if this is despite whatever Rozenn did to him of if she couldn't hold her spell any longer.

And Stiles still has so many questions he needs to ask before he's ready to accept– all of it.

“Calm down,” he hears Derek say, but it's so distant, farther away than the car he can hear coming up the dirt road now that he's listening for it. He wouldn't have thought human senses and memories were that subtle, but he recognizes the sound the cruiser makes like he's ten again and in the backseat pretending to be a bank robber his dad just caught.

 _Should I be worried about what you want to be when you grow up?_ his dad used to laugh, back when this was still funny and Stiles was not a constant worry. Before his mom. Before werewolves and court orders and almost killing his dad too by keeping the truth from him for too long.

And he's doing it all again.

He can't calm down. Everything resurfaces like water at the call of a dowser and Stiles is drowning it in. He can't even hear the car anymore, touches, scents, sounds disjointing and tangling up.

“Stiles,” he hears again, so close to his ear he can feel the breath that accompanies his name on his skin. Stiles holds on to Derek's scent until it's filling him and chasing away the anguish.

“I can't–” he tries to say around the heartbeat in his throat. “I don't want– dad...see me like–”

“I know,” Derek soothes him, “breathe.”

“Stiles,” Rozenn takes her turn saying, “is it human's blood?”

Stiles turns to her, squinting against the faint light, his headache reminding itself to him. “What?” He doesn't understand why she's asking something so obvious.

She sighs, turns to Derek, “This is a dèn-vleiz home, is it not? Don't you have a moon tide room?”

Derek shudders out a breath, tightening his grip on Stiles' shoulders before forcing himself to relax when it makes Stiles whine lowly. The pain in his eyes when he answers pierces Stiles' heart with guilt. “The basement,” Derek answers.

“No,” Stiles croaks out, because he doesn't want Derek to have to do this for him. To open this locked door no one would ever dream of even mentioning, to get down to the last piece of the old house still existing. The one Derek couldn't bring himself to fill anymore than he could set foot in it to clean it.

But Derek sets his jaw, losing the lost look he gets when he thinks about his family and the fire, replacing it with determination.

“Let's go.” He hooks his arms under Stiles' to hoist him up, and they start making their way to the basement door.

Stiles goes as fast as he can on trembling legs, knowing their time is limited before Scott and his dad get here, before his sensitive nose catches the scent that will definitely make him lose control in the state he's in. He hopes he would be too weak to attack, or at least break through Derek's hold; but he can't be certain adrenaline wouldn't do its work.

As much as he hates the idea, for multiple reasons, the basement is their best bet.

“Scott,” he stammers, too scattered to focus on it himself, “did Scott hear...?” They can't afford Scott knowing too early on that Stiles' is here. He would rush in, metaphorical guns blazing, make even more of a mess of the situation with good intentions in his heart.

Derek doesn't even pause before answering, probably having monitored the outside all this time. Stiles would be impressed if he wasn't so used to it now. “He's listening to your dad,” Derek readjusts Stiles' arm around his shoulders when he stumbles, the pain in his joints making it difficult to move, “they're discussing Melissa's birthday.”

There's a touch of humor in Derek's voice despite the circumstances, like he remembers exactly how much Scott and Stiles had wished for their parents to start dating, their elaborate stratagems to try and make it happen.

They stop in front of the door. Derek doesn't have to let go of Stiles to open it, just reaches inside his jeans' pocket to fish out the key; Stiles watches him doing it, immediately understanding the heavy implications of Derek already having the key on him. Feeling the imaginary weight of it all day, every day, a reminder. Derek avoids Stiles' eyes, but Stiles will try talking about it with him later, when everything is more settled.

He doesn't stop to think about how easy it is, standing next to Derek, to believe there'll be a _more settled_.

The door whines as it opens, a burst of cold air escaping at once and bringing with it a dark past. Stiles doesn't know if it's his imagination that's conjuring up the smell of fire and death, the echoes of screams up the walls, marks on the walls looking like desperate scratching. It seems like the bottom of the stairs is growing away, alive and ready to swallow them.

Stiles can't move. He doesn't want to go down, doesn't want to be buried alive in the soft, wet earth; he's always had nightmares about ghosts grabbing him and dragging him under to rest next to his mother.

If they hadn't known he was still alive after Lydia screamed, would they have held a funeral for him by now?

“Calm down,” Derek whispers in his ear, tightening his hold on Stiles' waist, “you're okay.”

“I'm not,” Stiles blurts out, “I'm scared.”

“I know,” Derek says.

“Are you monitoring my chemosignals?” Stiles chokes out a short laugh, trying to find some humor in the situation or else he will never be able to cross the door frame and go into the darkness.

“I don't–” Derek starts, but he falters and Stiles turns to look at him curiously, finds him blushing. “You don't give those out anymore. I just know,” Derek clears his throat and presses his lips together like it's nothing, really, that he _just knows_ that Stiles is terrified.

Derek taking the first step down while Stiles is still reeling is what gives him the strength to follow.

 

Stiles tries not to think too much as the second manacle locks on his wrist. It's padded inside, something he wasn't expecting since he still remembers the heavy chains Derek had used on his betas.

“I had to make do,” Derek answers when Stiles asks, a tightness in his voice that Stiles feels bad for putting there. Now really wasn't the time to bring out those memories.

Stiles lets his arm fall beside him, too tired to even try to test how secure the restraint is. Down here, it's like everything is muffled and he can concentrate better; the light being on also helps chasing the horrifying pictures Stiles' mind conjured up.

Rozenn kneels next to the both of them, and Stiles has to admit that he'd forgotten about her for a moment. “Will scents pass through?” she asks, and Derek glances at her before locking eyes with Stiles.

“Depends on how good your sense of smell is.”

“Depends on how strong his hunger is,” Rozenn retorts, looking at Stiles like she's both disappointed and worried. “You had to cross a lot of humans territories to get here, and you didn't lose control. It begs the question: why won't you feed, if you've already done so before traveling here?”

Stiles opens his mouth but no sound comes out. “I–” he stammers out, eyes finding Derek's curious ones and making any word die on his tongue. He doesn't want to explain, he wishes he could erase his mistakes so he wouldn't have to keep so many secrets and worry everyone.

“Alright,” Rozenn says, more softly, “then if you won't say anything about this, tell me why won't you ask your gadal to offer? Surely with your bond it's something you can share.” She looks at Derek questioningly.

“Uh,” Stiles' eyes widen. He glances at Derek who turns a raised eyebrow his way but can't hide the red that has returned to his cheeks. Whatever _gadal_ means, Stiles doesn't want to look at too closely right now. He clears his throat, “But werewolves,” he answers faintly. “I– I mean...,” he tries again, “werewolf blood doesn't...doesn't _call_ ,” he still hasn't find another way to put it into words.

Rozenn tilts her head to the side, unimpressed. “Something doesn't need to 'call',” she puts emphasis on the term, “to be of use.” She frowns, “You could drink chicken blood and be sustained by it, though you probably wouldn't find the same pleasure in it as in your First blood. Or your gadal's.”

“Okay, okay, stop, you're using gibberish again,” Stiles says, going for raising his hands but only managing to lift them a bit. The clanking of the chains makes him wince, and it takes a moment to think through the pulsing headache it reawakens; Stiles got so used to the pain that he forgot he was feeling it until it flared up.

“We don't have time, Stiles,” Derek says, then turns to Rozenn. “If he drinks my blood, will he stay in control when his dad gets here?”

“But his dad is already here,” Rozenn turns worried eyes on Stiles, “he could very well–”

“I don't want them to find me like this,” Stiles interrupts her, because he has the very bad feeling that she's about to say he could kill Derek accidentally and he doesn't need to hear it. “Drinking blood like a–” he stops and looks down, biting on his lip because he shouldn't say this out loud when Rozenn is right next to him and trying to help.

“And I don't want to leave you alone down here, in pain and scared,” Derek answers forcefully.

“What happens next will not be any of your choices,” Rozenn says sharply, eyes looking up. Derek follows her gaze and blanches just before the knock on the door comes. A dry sob escapes Stiles before he can reign it in. “I don't want you to see me like this,” he whines, realizing that he's grasping Derek's shirt like his life depends on it. He needs to let go. He needs to make Derek leave.

But he can't.

They all look at each other. “I will try to make them understand,” Rozenn offers, getting up and dusting her knees. Stiles wants to refuse, because she's not family and she doesn't know Stiles enough to have any inkling of what his wishes would be when it comes to his dad. She's not the right person for this and they won't trust her anyway, and Stiles isn't even sure _he_ trusts her and–

She's already gone.

The metal door clangs shut behind her.

“It's gonna be okay,” Derek breathes, so close that Stiles can see colors in his eyes he never would've caught when he was still human.

“You should be upstairs, making sure–” Stiles can't finish, no breath left in him, pain trickling back in now that Rozenn is gone. He thought he was feeling it full force again before. He wasn't.

“It's gonna be okay,” Derek repeats, running his thumb gently on Stiles cheek. His touch is so soft Stiles feels himself breaking under it, every crack inside of him yawning open no matter how hard he tries to hold on and hide just how broken he is.

Then Derek cups Stiles' head and brings him close, embraces him tightly and trapping the hand grasping his shirt between them. Stiles' chokes on everything and starts dry sobbing.

On his next shaky inhale, the scent reaches him.

And everything stops.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thank you for your comments I love you all so much <3**   
> 

Stiles opens his eyes, feeling like he's been asleep for ages but also like he'd only been blinking in the middle of a conversation. He's in Derek's living room standing in front of his dad and Scott; everything tilts when he staggers, dizzy, so he doesn't have time to analyze their expressions. He doesn't remember why he should, why he's so scared of what they could be thinking.

He catches the back of the couch to steady himself, but his arm is...wrong. A woman's voice echoes way too close in his ears, almost as if it's coming from inside. “He...shouldn't be able to do...this. _Stiles, stop_ ,” she finishes in another language that he understands but knows he never learned.

“Stiles, stop,” another voice, bringing forth images of blue-green eyes, “ _stop_ ,” her again, and then everything fades away.

 

The sun blinds Stiles, startling him into raising a hand to shade his eyes. He blinks the scene into focus, lashes sticking together from the nap he's just taken– the deep green of the trees stands too still on the washed out blue of the sky. There's no wind, no clouds, no mercy from the scorching touch of the sun.

He should put some sunscreen on– he doesn't need to; he'll heal.

Children are laughing, splashing around at the city pool. Cicadas sing. It's weird, he feels displaced. He knows this place like the back of his hand and has never been here at the same time. He's sure he doesn't like pools and swimming and is actually pretty scared of drowning.

Cold water crashed into him and he jumps up to run after the teen that just dropped a whole bucket on him, laughing while chasing him.

“No running,” the lifeguard scolds, making Stiles blood freeze. He knows her, doesn't he? He should stay away from her, but his body turns to the direction of her voice and he feels his heart beat faster at the pretty girl in her twenties in the red bathing suit. Her name is Kate and she's always smiling flirtatiously at him even when she reprimands him.

 _Don't go_ , Stiles desperately tries to hold himself back, but he moves towards her.

“It's just a dream,” another woman's voice screams, “stop!”

Kate says something he can't hear over the whooshing of blood in his ears, and while he opens his mouth to answer her, he feels like throwing up.

He turns away and retches on the wet pavement under his hands; it tastes like the iron of the old keys he loved to suck on when he was a kid, making his mom gently chide him. He can't get enough of it when it seeps down his throat, warm and liquid, but it's wrong, wrong, wrong. Wasn't he just sick from it?

“Stop,” his mother says. “Stop,” Derek repeats, breathless.

Derek? It sounded more like the wind, so weak and soft.

Stiles slowly twists around to find him, but everything blurs out: the alleyway, the dark, tired trees in the circles of light from the streetlights; the red puddle he's almost sitting in; the dark figure next to him.

He can't breathe– he's underwater holding his breath and he loves the burning in his lungs– he hates it, is scared of it. The world is upside down under the surface, making him dizzy, and he tastes blood. He's in the basement and Gerard just split his lip open with a hard punch. Anger and fear battle for a place in his heart, and his mind conjures up images of a fire he'll wake up from every night for years. He'll regret not having been there, and not even Laura's arms around him will make it better.

“Don't do this,” he hears, standing next to a monster bathed in red, eyes shining with madness. He's so desperately sad and alone, and he doesn't want to do this because it's the last of his family. He tries reaching with a too-small hand but only get bitten in return and he knows what's coming next.

The haunting single note of a flat line.

“Wake up!”

“Stiles,” Derek whispers, a hand on the back of his head. A dream of a missed moment, an almost. Stiles wishes and wishes, but understands that Derek would've never looked at him twice if life hasn't thrown them together. If staying close hadn't meant the difference between life and death.

If Derek feels anything for him, it's only the adrenaline of fight or flight, of saving each other. When things calm down, when Stiles goes away, Derek will forget about him. So Stiles won't take advantage of that; Derek has been manipulated too much.

“And not trusting me to know my own feelings is better?” Derek chuckles, the vibration reverberating from Stiles' own chest in the dream.

“You can't love me,” Stiles whispers back.

“Hmm,” Derek hums, not an agreement, “why can't I? If anything, you're the one who shouldn't love me.”

Stiles blinks his eyes open, sees only concrete and the crude light of an old light bulb. He feels so strong, most vulnerable.

It echoes with both of their voices, the storm of insecurities that stands like a wall between them.

 _Tragedy and time_ , they think, _killed the one I wish I could've been for you_.

“Come back. Please,” a breath taken, the sharp scent of salt trailing down their cheeks.

Stiles swallows. It hits him. Eyes widening, he jerks back and feels something give way under his fangs, knocks his back so hard into the wall behind him that he hears bones cracking.

Through his panicked hyperventilating, he hears someone slump to the ground. It's the woman and he's in the dark alley and he just killed someone. He lost control from the thirst that's bigger than him and now he's a monster– not just a creature, but a killer.

She's dead. Through the blur of his memories, he tries to reach for her and ask forgiveness. She's not here.

It's Derek.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles crawls closer to Derek, heart beating wildly in his throat like it's the source of the blood he's still tasting. He can't think past the loop of _I can't live without him I can't_ –

A rational part of his mind knows he won't die from the grief. Knows that whatever just happened, he'll keep on going. But the few seconds before reaching Derek aren't ones of rationality. He's both thinking too fast and feeling like some thoughts are laboriously dragging through mud, leaving indelible marks on the surface of his brain that he can't stop following over and over again.

He raises shaking hands and notes that they're too pale, too clean on the background that Derek's bloody neck paints. Stiles can't bring himself to touch Derek there, stomach turning at the idea of finding a wound he caused– and ever worse, scared of hurting him further.

It doesn't occur to him, because he's still very much used to being human, that he should be able to tell if Derek is alive just by hearing and smelling. The panic dulls his new senses and make him unbelievably forget everything his body can do now.

Stiles bends down to rest his ear on Derek's chest. How many times has he dreamed of waking up like this, head rising and falling to the rhythm of Derek's breathing. He's not sure why he never found the courage to ask for it -every impossible things seem so stupidly easy when faced with the possibility of losing them before ever having them.

He's pretty sure he'll find his excuses again when he's calmed down. At the moment, it's the relief that breaks him when he hears the quiet thump of Derek's heart.

He wishes this violent sobbing would stop.

This heavy heart, this residue despair that is still running through his limb like icy water, is it how Derek felt after Lydia's scream for Stiles, after they somehow found out that he wasn't dead?

The creak of the metal door is a shot through his head after focusing so hard on the tiny sound Derek's heart makes; Stiles jerks back in a defensive posture before freezing on the spot. He doesn't dare looking, afraid to find that Rozenn has brought down his dad and Scott with her. He can't bear the thought of them seeing this scene.

Maybe it's Rozenn's presence in the room -their bond still being mysterious in its properties- but Stiles' mind clears at once, though the assault on all his senses suddenly kicking back on makes it hard to really think.

The scents fill the gap with childhood memories of safety and pain and longing. The aches in him aren't pain and cravings anymore but the simple need of a loved one's embrace.

“Dad,” Stiles whines before he can stop himself, the light too bright to see clearly now that his vision is trying to hyperfocus. “Dad,” he says louder, through chopped breathing. He's a kid again, one that hasn't learned to cry silently yet.

A silhouette breaks off from the group at the door and comes to him. Stiles wants to flinch back because he's so scared– of himself, of his dad's reaction, of everything and anything. But he reaches instead.

The familiar weight of his father's arms falls around his shoulders. This is what's been keeping his head out of the water for so many years. Even when some of the water had been his dad himself.

Perhaps, Stiles thinks with a little hope, one can be both at the same time. Maybe nobody is perfect and what matters is doing your best to not hurt anyone; fixing your mistakes when they do happen; learning not to repeat them.

Stiles just wants so bad to be forgiven. He wants to be like Derek. More than that, he wants to be someone strong enough to protect Derek.

He'll have to work hard to get there, he thinks. But he's ready to try.

 

“Can I have a moment alone with him?” Rozenn asks quietly, probably knowing she's not making an easy demand.

Stiles catches the whine before it leaves his throat, when his dad lets go and goes back up the stairs.

“Stiles,” Rozenn says, kneeling in front of him. Stiles can only look at Derek being carried away on Scott's shoulder.

“Stiles,” she repeats, there's some sort of tenderness in her voice. It makes Stiles want to shut her up for a wild second because it sounds too much like a mother's tone. “Once you've calmed down, once Derek is awake, you'll see things more clearly. Nothing bad happened, and you'll understand in a moment that you did the right thing.”

“Almost killing him?” Stiles rasps out, not strong enough to look at her without hating her right now. It's irrational, he knows, she's not at fault for everything that's happened and she might be right about this. But it's also true that Stiles had been too close to–

He takes a deep breath, notes that nothing hurts. “Are you doing this again?”

Rozenn says nothing for a too long second. “I am not,” she sighs, “you might have rejected some of the blood you drank but most of it entered your system immediately, that shows just how starved you were. Your body is as strong as it should be, though you're not feeling it yet.”

“Do they hate me?” he brokenly whispers, finally looking at her without turning his head. He sees double for a fraction of an instant, a ghost of herself outlining her physical body before she goes back to normal. Rozenn makes a face.

“They're worried for you, and want to help you. Scott–” she stops and clicks her tongue, “They both need to understand how being what we are works. As do you. So perhaps it is best to start learning together, don't you think?”

Stiles fully turns to her, not needing her to say anything to guess how the conversation went. If conversation there even was in the first place, since Rozenn is a complete stranger and the Pack has some trust issues. He has flashes of how the scene could've gone, almost as if he was there with them...

“Wait,” he says, “did I see through your eyes?”

Rozenn smiles, raises a piece of tissue and starts cleaning him. He lets her, too dumbfounded by the whole thing to react. “You did,” she answers, stops her gentle movements for a second to observe him. “It seems you are a special child. Come,” she stands up, extends a hand to him. “We have a lot to talk about now.”

 

In the end, even gods die. Staying children forever is not enough; they get forgotten and fade away but Rozenn– she wasn't a god. Just a creature they made out of a wish for permanence.

“This is how it happened, my line of descent. Around the world, gods made creatures like us with many different intent; are we not all bound in some way by the wishes of our parents?”

Stiles side eyes his dad, keeping what he thinks about that for himself. He's currently closely sandwiched between the Sheriff and Scott despite the couch being large enough to fit four people. Derek is sleeping in the study, so they started without him though Stiles can't completely focus with him in another room.

“We, that you call vampires, were made to be the constant in an ever-changing world and so that is what we craved too. When I got tired of the swiftness of it all, I made a child for myself. This kind of egotistical wish never ends well, you know, and I thought I was the last one standing of my lineage just as I am one of the last _henaour_ , the First borns.”

“Why blood?” Scott asks, “Why does it have to do with blood at all?”

Rozenn opens her mouth but gets distracted by the same sound Stiles just heard: Derek waking up.

“Where's Stiles?” he calls from the study when Scott goes to check on him because Stiles can't make himself stand up. But hearing his name, Stiles can't not go to him, drop next to the small couch they laid Derek in as comfortably as they could.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, making Stiles chuckle humorlessly.

“I'm not the one I hurt.”

“Aren't you?” Derek says, “Because I feel fine now, but I can see you're still beating yourself up for nothing.”

“Nothing?” Stiles shouts in a high-pitched, shocked voice, “How was that nothing?”

“Calm down, kiddo,” the Sheriff interrupts from the doorway. “While you two have a lot to figure out, I think you'll need to have this conversation _privately_ ,” he emphasizes with a glance at Scott who stands there sheepishly, “and once we've dealt with some more urgent matters. Not that your story isn't fascinating,” he directs at Rozenn, “but we should get to the point of what exactly to expect from...uh,” he scratches the back of his head, “vampireness. I don't want Stiles to hurt himself again like he just did,” he sends a stern look at his son.

“I agree,” Rozenn says, watching Derek sit up with the help of Stiles, “especially since we don't have a lot of time before the hunter gets here.”

“I'm sorry,” Scott takes a step with his serious Alpha face on, “did you say hunter?”

 


	9. Chapter 9

When Stiles was a kid, he trusted everyone. His dad worried about that, but his mother wanted to preserve it.

A hunter is coming this way, Rozenn said. Scott swore and left the room to call the Pack while Derek, taking one look at Stiles and the Sheriff went to freshen up despite Stiles protests that he needs rest.

Now, Stiles' dad is sitting there pretending that he isn't noticing the distance his son is putting between them. It wasn't that long ago, though it feels like a lifetime already, that Stiles was so hysterical he couldn't do anything but cling to his father's embrace.

Stiles only has a fuzzy memory of that and the arguments Rozenn must have made for his dad to agree to leave his kid behind with a stranger. Forcing his son's hands to let go of his uniform's jacket.

But it isn't exactly the point at this moment; Stiles is back to being scared of hurting his father, of disappointing him, of _scaring_ him. Even satiated, able to control himself and have a better grasp on his senses, it's a battle against the alluring smell of human blood. It makes Stiles sick to think about his father like that. He turns his head away, jaw clenching.

“Do you trust that woman?”

Stiles used to be so trusting. It's been hammered out of him so long ago it feels like a childhood illusion– he's not sure when he started closing his heart off. Maybe when his mother was still alive but not _there_ enough. Maybe she's the first person he stopped trusting, even.

“I know that I need her, so I have to trust that she's legit.” They did let her go meet the Sheriff and Scott alone, though it could be said that the urgency of the moment forced them to make decisions they wouldn't have made otherwise.

Stiles shudders when he thinks about everything that could've gone wrong then. “And I've literally been inside her head, so...”

The Sheriff makes a face at that, the same one he makes every time a discovers a new type of supernatural creature. The one that says he'd gladly go back to when the wildest shit around were naked robbers and actual mountain lions.

“I've wondered about what it was you weren't supposed to be able to do, actually. I knew she couldn't be lying about you being alive and around then,” he chuckles, “because you're always exceeding everyone's expectations.”

Stiles smiles, though he has no idea what's expected of vampires that he could do better– being a bloodsucking monster is already pretty up there in his opinion.

He barely holds back the gag that shakes him at the thought– the memory of the taste on his tongue. It's exactly because he thought it so good that he's so disgusted.

“How did that conversation go anyway?” Stiles asks to distract himself, seeing from the corner of his eyes the raised hand his dad hesitates to put on his shoulder to comfort him. The hand lowers and Stiles' heart aches.

“About how'd you expect,” John hums quietly, “you've been in the middle of this kind of things long enough to get what I mean,” he side eyes his son.

Stiles did sit in enough intimidation games to know how they go; that said he's pretty sure Rozenn isn't one to be intimidated. “So what did she say to convince you?” he asks, adding, “Really convince you,” because no way she got on their good side just because he, what? Half possessed her at some point?

“Well she did say you were alive and with Derek but Scott couldn't smell you in the house. He found the Jeep parked at the back though and we all know that you're where that beast is,” his dad says like it really was that simple. But Stiles decides not to push for more details, for the panic and fear and anger that must have been boiling through them both. He's familiar with it all. “You really planned on not letting anyone know you were here, huh?”

Stiles has nothing to say to that. He always knew deep down things wouldn't go the way he wanted it to, but had it been his choice his dad wouldn't be sitting here right now. He's glad his hand was forced a bit -even counted on it a little, if he's completely honest. He can be pretty immovable otherwise, so who knows when he'd have changed his mind about letting his father in.

“I was just–” he tries to explain, lets out a bitter laugh when he can't find any words that wouldn't make it sound worse than it is.

“I get it,” John says softly, sighing and running a hand through his graying hair. Stiles wonder how much of it is on him, or if life is supposed to move on so fast.

He's already picturing it go on without him, leaving him behind, alone for all eternity while he become one of those bitter immortals you see in books.

He's surprised about the lack of panic. Is it because he's made stronger by his new nature, or is it because he's slowly losing his humanity already?

“Listen, kiddo,” his father says, looking down at his hands hanging between his knees, like he's ashamed of something. “I haven't always been the best parent–”

“Dad,” Stiles tries to interrupt but his dad raises his head and pins him with a look that makes him lose his voice.

“It's true, and we both know it. After your mom died...,” he trails off with a sigh. “I tried to make up for that time the best way I could but it doesn't make up for the fact that a lot of your growing up has nothing to do with me, and it hurts, it does.” He clears his throat, sniffing suspiciously like he's already trying to hide the tears that haven't fallen yet.

“But it's not the point I'm trying to make, this isn't a parental pity-party,” John chuckles awkwardly, “I have my therapist for that,” _his what_ , Stiles thinks, but before he can ask his dad continues, “what I'm saying is...,” he looks up at his son again a glint in his eyes that Stiles desperately want to hang on to even if he can't let himself believe in it. Not anymore than in the words that follow. “You're strong and _good_ and you're the person you are today thanks to _yourself_. I'm proud of you, and I love you, no matter what. The only thing I could ever hate is that you've been hurt again when you should have been safe and happy away from here.”

Stiles looks away. He doesn't know what to say. His dad doesn't even know about what happened while he was missing, about the woman in the alley.

“Uh,” Scott says from the doorway, looking hesitant to interrupt the emotional reunion Stiles is done with anyway, “the other's will be here in five.”

“Right,” Stiles says, glances at his father not knowing how to apologize for not finding an answer to his declaration. Stiles knows exactly how much this kind of conversations cost a Stilinski. Without another word, he gets up, and goes to find Rozenn.

He has some things to ask before he's overrun by the Pack.

 

He finds her on the front porch, soaking up the last of the sunlight before it's dark. Stiles stays right on the inside of the shadow line, on the other side of the door. Just looking outside blinds him.

“You will get used to the sun again, child,” she says without turning around, a faint smile on her lips. She's back to being amused by him and this is when Stiles realizes that her cool and mysterious demeanor from when she first arrived had been put to the test a lot in the last couple of days.

He has that effect on people, he supposes. Testing their limits even when he doesn't mean to, even when they're ageless beings.

“How long did it take for you?”

She hums in thoughts. “I had the gods with me, I never had to. My own children did.”

“And how many of those did you make?” he asks, trying to find the forgiveness in him he had when she first announced to be his...how did she say? Foremother?

She turns to him then, something sad in her eyes. “Too many to count, after the gods left me alone. I watched them all wither and die from the madness of this life, from my failings as a mother. It's not surprising that one of them or their descendant slipped through the cracks.”

“You don't even know who bit me, do you?” he huffs out a humorless laugh, looking down at his feet while shoving his hands in his pocket. Some -Derek- cross their arms when they're on the defensive. Stiles never has to, because he's always been the first one to attack. “Well you won't have to take care of him anymore, no need to thank me. But is this why you want to help me so much? Not for _me_ but to gain some sense of redemption for _yourself_?”

“Isn't it what everyone does?”

“I thought old age made people wise.”

She hums, then laughs. “I do want to help _you_ , redemption is...,” she looks for the right way to say it, “a human's concept.”

Does that mean she doesn't care for morals or that Stiles is supposed to let go of human's ideals too? He's not sure why he's so angry at her all of a sudden, he just wanted a conversation. He just said he needed her help, and he was so detached about her supposed role in all of this at first. Maybe being a vampire doesn't erase emotions in the end.

Maybe it's just easier to let go with a complete stranger he knows he won't hurt. Maybe not being starved half to death cleared his head enough to find back his old infuriation.

“So we're not supposed to care anymore? About forgiveness and what we did wrong?”

“Did I do something wrong?” she frowns, more out of confusion than anger.

“Yes! No! I don't know?” Stiles shrugs, frustration pouring out of him. “You should've tried to, I don't know. They were your kids, shouldn't you have done _something_?”

“I did.” Her eyes are full of sorrow suddenly, and she blurs around the edge. “One of them just got away.”

It sounds like she knew about it. Stiles, if he thinks about it, can't find fault in not wanting to chase your family to kill. But he can't think about that right now because it's that family that hurt him. “Who are you?” he asks, trying to hold on to the ghost of her he can glimpse.

“It's hard not to slip sometimes,” she answers. “You see, we are not eternal per say, time simply has no hold on us. Literally.”

Stiles blinks hard twice, failing to understand what she's implying. “I'm sorry, what are you bullshitting now?”

“But you're special,” she takes a step closer, and he can't help but take a step back. “Why are you so reluctant _now_? I am only here to help,” she insists in her soft voice. “I think the rules will be different for you. I think you will turn out to be something more, something that doesn't break.” There's grief in her words, and that more than anything else she's said makes Stiles pause.

He has a sudden image of his mother, before the dementia. If he could have her again like that, whole and loving.

Again. He understands. He just needs someone to blame all of a sudden. Someone alive and right in front of him, who he can unleash all the violence against. He has so much to pour out before he feels cleansed from the resentment inside of him that just woke up.

“I understand,” she says, with that soft smile of hers.

“I don't want you to understand,” Stiles sneers. “I want you to help, and I want you to apologize, and make it all fucking better before you fuck off to whatever lost land you came from.”

“Then let's start, shall we?”

 

“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” Scott says, obviously having heard Stiles conversation despite himself. He glances between Rozenn and Stiles quickly, but Stiles can't say if it's because he wants her to leave or simply to ask Stiles if he's okay or going to try and rip her to shreds.

Stiles hesitates before nodding and going to the kitchen. If they're going to have the Pack around, someone has to start looking around for food and drinks -or maybe he just needs to keep his hands busy.

But they barely step inside that Stiles feels a sharp tug on his arm and he's turned around too fast to react and resist the pull. He finds himself held in a firm embrace before he can even fully process Scott's move. For a few seconds, he's frozen in place.

Then he lets out a shaky breath –that's when he realizes he'd stopped breathing and his body didn't feel the difference. His next shocked, shaky inhale comes with nothing but the scent of his best friend and, yes, the heavy tang of blood he can't not smell at any given moment. But just like with Derek there's no urge to sink his fangs -he can't remember if he grew those earlier or not- in Scott's neck. It's safe. If anything were to happen, Scott would be able to fight back, too.

Stiles relaxes, melts into the hug, bringing his arms up to put around Scott. His brother.

“I looked for you everywhere,” Scott says into his neck, too low for Stiles to hear him -if he'd still been human.

“I know,” Stiles whispers, not knowing how to make this better. He's known from the beginning that Scott would look for him, guessing the Pack bond would let him know something went wrong -and he needs to ask about that, too, but there's so much to think about.

Stiles wouldn't change his decision, though, stands by the fact that he wasn't ready to face Scott and his good intentions. Even now, he's not exactly ready, but Scott's here and Stiles won't avoid him; he won't hurt him again like that, he'll just deal with whatever's coming. At least he's not sick from the hunger anymore.

They break the embrace. “Is Rozenn the one that turned you?” Scott asks bluntly, eyes a little narrowed and voice with a touch of his Alpha's command in it. Stiles tilts his head to the side and chuckles.

“The one that did this to me has no legs to follow me,” he shrugs and Scott looks on the verge of scolding him before nodding with a tight smile. He always has those seconds between his moral code and the reality of things coming back to him, and Stiles doesn't blame him for that. In a perfect world, none of them would have to defend themselves, and to kill to do so.

If Scott could, he would shoulder everything and keep them from having to get blood on their hands. He's the one that hurts the most from the life they had to lead before things calmed down a bit and most of them could leave for college.

“Argent told me on the phone that in legends, uh...,” he glances away like he's embarrassed, “people like her had some sort of hypnotic powers or something. He doesn't know much more than that,” he clears his throat.

“You can say vampires,” Stiles murmurs. This is what he's been afraid of. “I've accepted it,” _mostly_.

Scott stays silent for a few seconds. “Maybe there's something–”

“There's not.” Scott looks up at Stiles' harder tone of voice. “This is real, and nothing can change it, and yes I do need to drink blood to survive. No way of going around that.”

Scott looks down. “I...I know,” he says, “I was just hoping–” he raises his head again to look at Stiles with these eyes no one can fight against, “you never wanted to be changed.”

His heart in the right place, Stiles remembers. The biggest reason behind his words and actions, however wrong they can be sometimes, is his love for people. It's not an excuse, but Stiles softens. He can't be mad at Scott, not ever. “I know. But...,” he hesitates, think about what his dad told him. “I'm strong. I'll manage.” He smiles even though he doesn't believe yet. But some things you have to say out loud again and again to trust them.

That's how magic works, right? Once he believes, he can do anything.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Derek comes back downstairs looking like nothing ever happened. His hair is still wet; Stiles thinks about it matted by blood and averts his eyes.

“Stiles,” Derek says, the sound of his voice focusing Stiles' hearing immediately. He doesn't even really notice Scott leaving the room. Derek comes closer, his scent permeating the air in a sweet way that is so different from how his blood smells. Stiles inhales deeply for the first time since his dad got here. He hadn't fully realized how shallow his breaths were until now.

“It's okay,” Derek continues, one step making him pass from respectable to intimate distance. But he doesn't get close enough to touch, considerate of Stiles' avoidance. “I'm okay.”

Stiles looks up but not at Derek's face. He can't quite meet his eyes yet; earlier it was easier because of the relief of him being alive and conscious. Stiles looks at his neck instead, clean and without any blemishes.

In a bold impulse, Stiles reaches up and touches him there. His fingers are shaking. “Did it hurt?”

Derek hums softly. “It itched.” He chuckles lowly at Stiles disbelieving face.

“It itched?” he squeaks, “What am I, a mosquito? Are you really trying to make me believe it _itched_?”

“It's really delicate things you have there,” Derek reaches up in turn, but he hovers over Stiles lips, not daring to touch. Stiles' breath stammers, hoping a foolish hope that Derek would complete the gesture.

But they've always stayed silent on the matter.

“I saw–” Stiles starts, but he suddenly fears talking about the things he saw while drinking Derek's blood. Memories. When he thinks about them, they're clearer than any of his own. “The Pack will be here soon,” he finishes instead, feeling a bit insecure at the idea of being overcrowded when he's so different from the last time they saw him.

“Hey,” Derek says, one step further than he was an instant before. “You're still _you_ , you know?”

“I– uh...I...,” Stiles rubs at his neck. He wants to deny that Derek saw through him that well again, but finds no words. “Yeah, I know,” he defends himself instead. He believes that, too, in a weird contradictory way. Because if he's different for his strength and monstrosity, somehow it feels like being what he is now is just a expression of a wrongness in him that's always been there.

Derek clears his throat before looking to the side, “I saw too,” he says so low even Stiles' hearing can't give him any assurance that he heard right.

“What?”

Derek completely turns his head as if looking for a way out, before turning to Stiles again. “You've always been quick to blame yourself, to think you're awful. I can't say I don't understand,” he says with a self-deprecating smile. He doesn't add anything but looks like he has much more to say, just doesn't really know how to get it out. His eyes seem to plead with Stiles to get it. Then he sighs in frustration.

“I guess what I'm trying to say...,” he looks down, “is that I wish you'd see yourself the way you see me.”

Stiles' feels his face do something complicated, so surprised by the unusual way to say this that he has no idea what to answer. The first thing that comes to mind is to wonder if Derek knows how much Stiles _loves_ him, but of course he can't ask this out loud.

He has a vague recollection of thinking he should try to say all of this to Derek whatever the risks are, forgetting all that's holding him back. He's not that brave in the end.

He was scared of himself before, of being wrong for Derek especially now that the man has found some peace with himself; because Stiles is messed up and makes the wrong choices, finds trouble always -or maybe trouble just recognizes its kind.

And now it's worse, isn't it? He can't be a burden to Derek. Hold him back.

He's pretty sure whatever Derek could feel for him is happenstance too, just two people with similar darkness within, thrust into impossible situations together, adrenaline making them confuse danger with love. With enough time away, he was hoping to give Derek a chance to realize that he doesn't love Stiles.

No one could love Stiles unless they have no other choice.

_Not trusting me to know my own feeling is better?_

Stiles is jerked out of his own head by the clear memory of Derek's voice. He looks at him, bewildered. Was it a dream, or...

 _I saw too_.

Stiles feels it coming by the way his senses slowly go into hyperfocus and his breath itches.

Why can't he stop going in circles? He feels like he's always taking a step forward and two backwards.

“Stiles!” Rozenn's voice cuts through the panic before it can fully set in, heard not only from the outside.

He turns to see her standing there with a severe air. She looks disapproving.

He turns back to Derek and his worried eyes, glancing between him and Rozenn. She tilts her head towards Derek. “Speak your truth,” he hears, her lips unmoving. Then she turns on her heals and leaves, muttering something about foolishness and gadals -though Stiles still doesn't know what _that_ means. He sighs, rubbing at his forehead to try and forget about the way his heart beats slightly harder in his chest; it's both his nerves and the slight irritation he feels towards Rozenn.

Whatever that is about. He doesn't understand a lot that he's feeling at the moment.

“Listen, Derek, I–” he tries, hesitating. He's hit suddenly by the _moment_. It feels so absurdly normal, to be anxious about talking with Derek about feelings like he didn't almost kill him earlier, like he's not a vampire, or didn't almost starve himself into a catastrophic situation. The pain he felt only a handful of hours before is distant; Stiles knows he felt it but he can't quite conjure up the feel of it or its seriousness.

He could barely move, and yet it seems it was barely a dream.

He wonders if he'll feel like that again soon and go back to square one.

Maybe what he needs is his dad's therapist. However that came to happen. He's glad, though: he's never pushed the issue but always wanted his dad to consider starting therapy.

“I'm not sure what'll happen now,” he starts again, looking slightly to the left of Derek. “About this hunter, or the Pack, or even, like...me having to figure out the rules of this,” he gestures vaguely with one arm, “new life. Nonlife. Whatever vampires have.” Any other time in his life, or any other creature he could've become, he would've played around with his limitations endlessly. He would've had _fun_ with it.

But he's all too aware of what he's capable of, and it sobers him up every time he feels like testing his strength.

“Hey,” Derek says, softly. “One step at a time.” He smiles, though it seems to pain him a little. “We can figure out everything else when you're ready, alright?”

 _Not trusting me to know my own feelings_ , Stiles hears again. If it's real, he feels unfair for making Derek wait without a clear answer. “Yeah, okay,” is all he can offer, though.

 

The Pack always seemed deadly silent to Stiles when he was human; he always found Derek too severe about it during training, though he never said anything. He just stood there and let himself feel envious of what they had -it was never their powers or strength. It was the bond, the understanding.

Stiles, being who he is, had long reflected on why, exactly, he didn't want the bite. It didn't mean he didn't fantasized about it sometimes in a distant, safe way.

Now, he hears the wolves coming whole minutes before they get here, heavy running footsteps sounding impatient. They could have come in the car with Allison and Lydia but running is faster.

“Oh, I get what you meant,” he says to Derek, who raises an eyebrow before nodding when he understands what Stiles is referring to. “This hearing this is pretty neat when I can control it.” It's still difficult to voluntarily focus it and some small sounds take him by surprise by sounding like thunder while he doesn't compute closer noises, but it's way better than the first few days.

He also tries not to think about what helped him get more focus. He'll have nightmares about Derek's blood for a while, he thinks. Well, when he feels like sleeping anyway. It took him by surprise when he was exhausted from starvation but now he feels like he can go days without.

“You have the equivalent of a dèn-vleiz's hearing,” Rozenn says from her seat in the living room where they gathered to wait for everyone else. “It can get even better with practice.”

Scott seems more curious about it than Stiles himself and asks, “What about the other senses?”

Rozenn considers the question for a moment, like she can't quite remember from the top of her head. From what he gathered, she's probably never been in Stiles position exactly.

“Scents don't come as stronger to us, except for for hunting First blood -and secondarily other types of blood, of course.”

“First blood?” Stiles dad asks.

Stiles looks down, hating that his father latched onto the term and wants clarifications -because Stiles really doesn't want him to understand the implications behind the inevitable explanation.

But Rozenn looks at Stiles and sighs to let him know she's not happy about his reluctance, though she continues without being too specific, “Simply the blood that calls the most, the one that pleases and satiates best. Not a necessity in itself and a craving easily controlled, as long as we're not _famished_.”

The hint of reproach is clear to hear by everyone and Stiles doesn't look up because he knows they all agree on that. But what would they have done in his place, he would ask them if he felt braver.

“As for the rest, I believe our sight is better in the dark, which is why we're more sensitive to bright lights.”

Stiles frowns. She says _we_ but she admitted to not having ever been bothered by the sunlight. He's supposed to be his descendant in a twisted way, but where most creatures evolves with each generation it seems vampires are only worse than their creators– and Stiles has been created by he worst already.

When the Pack is so close that Stiles can hear them louder than his own heartbeat, he gets up nervously. He's not quite sure what to expect, though if his dad and Scott reactions weren't awful as he thought they'd be there's no reasons the others' would be bad. The sound of the car is closer than he expected, so maybe the wolves waited so they could all get there at the same time.

The door opens wildly, banging against the wall, and Stiles jumps but really doesn't expect to be engulfed in a tight embrace– one that would've been shy of too tight but also careful of his human bones once and he now barely feels squeezing around him. Stiles both wants Erica to let go and to hold on forever, unable to relax in the hug but needing it to go on so he can feel like nothing ever happened to him at all.

“Stiles!” he hears coming from another very comforting voice, though Lydia sounds frustrated. Now that he focuses outside of Erica's embrace, he can hear Boyd and Isaac standing a little ways away, heartbeats a little too fast for their usual uncaring attitudes. Allison stands aside but she doesn't smell like any of the acrid scents Stiles is starting to associate with negative emotions.

Erica lets go just enough for Stiles to see around her shoulders. “Don't do that ever again!” Erica berates him, slapping him hard on the arm.

“Ow!” Stiles exclaims, rubbing the spot, not having a chance to ask what he's not supposed to be doing again before she huffs and rolls her eyes fondly, “Like it hurt, you're super strong now too, aren't you?” she laughs.

“Be gentle,” Derek admonishes, stepping closer and making Erica give space to Stiles. She goes to stand next to Boyd who gives a half smile and some nods to Stiles in greetings.

“Nice to see you alive I guess,” Isaac says before moving around everyone to go towards the couch though he stops near Scott when he sees Rozenn.

“Why don't we all sit down and resume things?” the Sheriff offers, which Stiles appreciates since he doesn't quite like being the center of attention this way. And he has to admit that Lydia's glare is a little heavy and he hopes that talking about more practical things will set her on Rozenn.

He doesn't exactly look forward to the conversation about him dying, however temporary that turned out to be.

 

“You're a _vampire_ ,” Isaac says with this face he makes sometimes that irritates Stiles the most. “I mean, Scott told us but, really?”

“We though they weren't real,” Boyd says with a glance at Isaac, softening the declaration. Stiles doesn't mind anyway, it's a little soothing to see that they're not afraid of being their usual selves with him.

“I told you they used to be,” Allison interjects.

“And we're very curious about their specificities, obviously,” Lydia continues with a tilt of her head that means the gears are turning even faster than usual.

She's turned towards Rozenn when she says this -she's already caught on about her being the authority on vampires already. Lydia's eyes do something funny, though, narrowing and blinking heavily, when she looks at the woman; maybe Stiles isn't the only one to see the...silhouette thingy.

Unbound by time or something like that; that's what Rozenn said on the subject.

Rozenn scoffs softly.

“Don't you hunters know everything about anything already?” she directs at Allison with a faint smile that is anything but amicable.

Allison doesn't waver, doesn't look down or fidget or blush; Stiles has always admired that about her, she stands strong for things she believes in. “My family hasn't been that kind of hunter since I've started leading them,” she says, both to show her status and to set the record straight. “And I won't pretend to know anything about creatures we have never hunted personally and believed were extinct.”

Rozenn laughs, head thrown back and it startles everyone since she seems too dignified to be so loud. The sound isn't quite human, too. “I see,” she finally says. “But maybe this is a matter that should be between my young one and myself, though his gadal is always welcome.” She looks towards Derek at that.

“ _Your_ young one?” the Sheriff raises an eyebrow just as Erica turns to Derek with a suspicious air and repeats, “His gadal?”

Rozenn clears her throat, “I'm not sure how it would translate, but I thought the context would make it clear that I am talking about his suitor, Derek.”

Stiles chokes on air and starts coughing while Erica slaps him in the back with a loud laugh. Everyone else seems awkwardly amused, except Derek who looks mortified. “My _what_?” Stiles gets out between heavy breaths, glancing at Derek. This is a non-conversation that Stiles was hoping they wouldn't have, and in privacy if at all possible.

Stiles dad, looking like he wants to be anywhere but here at the moment, changes the subjects without even trying to be subtle and Stiles is grateful. “I don't know about how things work anywhere else, but the uh, Pack,” he says with that tone parents use when they talk about one of their kids new things that they don't quite understand -like pokemons or a weird rock collection- “and associates,” he points at himself but Melissa and Argent are included though unable to be present now, “share all information. _Of vital importance_ ,” he amends, vaguely gesturing between Stiles and Derek and earning a few snickers from various people in the room that Stiles crosses off from his list of favorites.

“Very well,” Rozenn says, folding her hands on her lap. She looks exactly like the first day she got here in the same chair, with the same perfect posture, looking out of time. “What shall I start with, then?”

 

“The gods?” Lydia asks when Rozenn is done explaining a second time the parts she already talked about with Derek and Stiles. Being made by the gods, a First Born. The last of them and their children.

“Do you find it hard to believe?” Rozenn retorts. There's a similar energy coming from the two of them. Maybe it's because Rozenn comes not far from where Banshees originate, or maybe it's something else. It's hard to say.

Lydia seems to think for a moment. “I don't. I also think what we put too much importance on whatever they actually are and can do.”

Rozenn laughs. “They _are_ powerful,” she says, “but they can die. Immortality doesn't make them wiser, but even more childlike. Unlike children, though, they know of death and are scared of it, of losing things to it. It makes them capricious, impulsive, possessive, sometimes careless with the things they have no use for. Death is an easy way to throw things away. But they are also naively kind.”

“You're not childlike,” Derek interrupts her, and Stiles turns to him to find him laser focused on Rozenn. He seems to be intent on absorbing any and all information she's ready to give them and even press her for more in need to. Stiles doesn't know what to make of it, but he's so grateful he can't help but smile a little.

When he turns back to Rozenn as she begins to answer, his eyes catch Allison, who flashes her dimples at him while tilting her head Derek's way. Stiles gives him those embarrassed eyes that mean they'll talk about it later.

They've been having conversations about _feelings_ , romantic and otherwise, ever since she broke up with Scott and it stopped being awkward for the both of them.

“I am not immortal, my line even less than me. Time doesn't bind me, that's all.”

Stiles feels something inside of him come loose at that, like a puzzle piece that was forced into the wrong slot and got just taken out.

“So you mean you exist in every moment at the same time?” Lydia argues. “That doesn't make sense, you would be older than the earth itself, and you could know what happens in what we see as our future.”

“You misunderstand. The gods made me what I am because they were scared of me disappearing forever, so they removed me from time. Their powers kept me tethered to them, until they disappeared and it turned on me. It's hard for me to exist within your perception of time, and it _is_ what drove all my children mad in the end, other than the bloodlust.”

“But I don't–” Stiles starts to say, surprised at having spoke up. He doesn't feel any different time-wise so this revelation surprises him. Also, isn't being unbound by time essentially the same thing as living forever? It's so confusing he's starting to feel a pressure at his temples from trying to wrap his mind around whatever she's trying to say. He'll have to ask Lydia if she got it. Whenever he's brave enough to face her.

“As I said to you before, you are a special one,” she responds thoughtfully.

“I always said he's something weird,” Isaac mutters, and judging by his smirk he knows he's been loud enough to be heard by everyone.

“But...,” Scott starts, looks at Stiles in hesitation before biting his lip and going on, “why were you created to drink blood?”

Stiles doesn't react. It's a legitimate question after all, and he knows Scott only asks because he's worried about him. It's a little frustrating that he's focusing on that, but it's the most prominent thing about vampires after all.

“And if you're the original vampire,” Allison adds, “you mean that all the vampires as we know them were your...descendants?” she words a little awkwardly.

Rozenn looks away with an embarrassed posture that looks so old-fashioned, like a noble lady in a historical movie. “First of all, many gods changed people for many different reasons, as I already said,” she answers with a hint of reproach in her voice at having to repeat herself. “That a fair portion of those, _and their children_ , ended up resembling one another enough to be considered various sources for the vampire folklore is a human detail that is of little importance.

It is to be noted that I don't call myself or my lineage vampires, other than to make myself clear to you. I call us corrigoad, a word I invented from my language that could be translated to blood fairies. Corrigans are creatures I grew up with, in my childhood land.

As for the blood part, another god's wish gone wrong, you have to know I invented the name long after it started being something I needed, so I would have something to call my family.”

“You mean, the ones you turned,” Allison interrupts her a little dryly.

“I would like to see what you would do when isolated, lonely, the only one of a kind that is merely a broken toy left behind by creatures greater than you could ever be?” Rozenn bites out, her voice holding enough of a menace that the younger wolves start growling lowly in their throats.

Stiles' breath is knocked out suddenly, both affected by the animosity in the room and by the agonizing feeling of being torn between what Rozenn is feeling and the Pack bound he has been able to feel even as a human.

His vision whites out.

“Stop!” he hears from very far away, holding on to the sound of Derek's voice to try and regain his footing. He starts breathing again, heavily, and swallows back the saliva he feels pooling up at the back of his mouth. He hopes he won't throw up, because he knows exactly what he's eaten lately and it would be very hard not to feel like a monster when everyone sees Derek's blood at his feet.

“Can I touch you?”

He nods as much as he can to convey that he needs something to anchor him to the moment. He feels a warm pressure at his back that starts rubbing in circles and realizes when he can see again that he's doubled over himself on the couch. It takes a second to figure out that he's the one keening.

“I think it's enough for today,” Stiles hears his dad say, “Derek, go take him to rest.”

The next thing Stiles knows, his face is buried in Derek's neck and it takes him all he has not to panic in front of everyone and push back. He grabs hold of Derek's shirt and nearly tears it apart in the time it takes to get to the bedroom.

And then he tears himself away from Derek.

 

There's a flash of hurt on Derek's face.

“I– I don't–” Stiles tries to say, “your, your,” he gestures vaguely, panicked, “I can't.”

Derek's shoulders drop and Stiles wonders how he can be so relieved to hear Stiles panic about this. Then it hits that Derek probably prefers to hear that Stiles simply can't bear to be near _necks_ than near _Derek himself_.

“Alright I'm sorry, I'll be careful next time,” Derek placates him. Then approaches slowly, making sure his closeness is something Stiles accepts before taking his hand and leading him to the bed. Derek's, Stiles realizes.

“What? Next time? Why are we in your bedroom?” he asks quickly, confused by the situation.

“It's soundproof,” Derek states, sitting Stiles down and turning to fetch something in the dresser.

Hearing that, Stiles' mind does a complicated thing that takes him to very inappropriate places before the horrible fact that Derek wants to talk sets in.

“Do you have a fever?” Derek asks when he turns back and takes a frantic step forward that makes Stiles very conscious of how hot his face feels. Then Derek stops and frowns, “You can't get sick anym– _oh_ ,” he drawls out. When he starts chuckling, Stiles turns bewildered eyes in his direction, unable to believe this would be laughing matters. But the sound is a touch hysterical, he notes.

“It's not funny!” he protests, before a chuckle of his own bubbles out of him. Then he just can't stop.

It takes them long minutes to wind down between the bouts of laughter that stop and start again every time they look in each other's direction.

Stiles isn't sure he's ever seen Derek laugh this much or this openly before, even if it's mostly nerves.

He's not even sure when he did that himself last.

Derek sits down next to him when they've calmed down. Stiles feels exhausted, as if he just had a massive cry instead of this. But he doesn't have tears anymore, so he supposes it's the next best thing to release pent up emotions.

“It's a lot of informations at once,” Derek says lowly without turning to Stiles, a blanket between his arms that Stiles is just now noticing.

“I wish we wouldn't need any of it,” is his honest answer. He's so washed out by the laughing that it comes out of his mouth without him having the energy to regret saying it. Derek knows, anyway. They all do. “I wish I would wake up and find out it's all a dream, but the only times I can fall asleep is when I'm half dead from starving and I only have nightmares.”

“About...about what happened?” There's a softness, a carefulness in Derek's voice that Stiles kind of hates. But he longs for it, too, and more than anything right now he wants to go back to the little time they had alone together before Rozenn got here, not matter how awful he felt back then.

He doesn't know how, but he knows they'd have managed. And even if it hurt, at least there was this sort of peace in the air. A stillness in events and feelings.

He hums in answer. It could mean anything, since a lot has happened.

“If you ever want,” Derek starts haltingly, “to talk about when you were turned–”

“There's not much to say,” Stiles interrupts a little too harshly, turning away, “at least I know killing the one who turned you is bullshit.” He freezes at what he just said. He bites his lips and looks down at his shaking hands, sees them covered in red. He coughs and wipes them on his jeans as if he's drying nervous sweat instead of the memory of blood. He glances at Derek from the corner of his eyes to gauge his reaction now that he has admitted to killing someone -even if it's his attacker and not...the woman. Which doesn't make it any better since it just means he's killed enough people that admitting to one still makes the other a secret.

Derek is looking away, blushing, and Stiles frowns, trying to figure out why in the stretching silence. Then he gets it. “Oh my god!” he exclaims, making Derek cough bashfully. “Oh! My! G– dude! No!”

He starts laughing again, this time more earnestly.

“Please don't tell Scott,” Derek pleads, turning to him with a sheepish face.

“You _knew_?” Stiles keeps laughing, “You knew it was bullshit and it's not even werewolf stuff and you,” his vision starts to get blurry from laughing so hard, “you told Scott,” he continues, breathless, “to kill Peter! To stop being a werewolf!”

It's not even funny in itself, because the night of Peter's death was wild, awful, and was one of the markers that they would never be normal kids again. But Derek told Scott that he would go back to being human if they killed the one who bit him and it's so funny to Stiles that he just can't stop laughing for the second time.

Except this time, and he realizes it way later when everything's calmed down again and he's faced with another talk, his cheeks are wet.

But right then he's just lost in the moment. And the moment is broken by the feeling of alarm that runs all along Stiles' bones, coming from deep within and sobering him up abruptly. It comes from Rozenn, and it comes from the Pack.


	11. Chapter 11

“Someone crossed into the territory,” Derek breathes out, looking outside the window from the bed like he'd be able to see the edge of town if he focused hard enough.

The Pack's territory borders are somewhat unclear, though they extend at least a few miles outside the city limits and deeper into the woods than one would think. The Alpha should be the only one to have any sense of everyone living inside and strangers coming and going, but this land his Hale's, so it answers to Derek maybe even more than to Scott.

“Can you say...,” Stiles trails off, aware that the alarm still coursing through his veins means this is not just a usual traveler or someone crossing town without even stopping. Though how can Derek say is a mystery to Stiles.

But, he has Rozenn's feels to go with, too, and her worry feels familiar to her. She's run into this stranger before, and it didn't end well -if Stiles could do the mind reading thing again, he would try to see what really happened.

He gets up, hating that this moment with Derek is broken, feeling like he was just on the edge of something important and had to take a frustrating step back.

He runs down the stairs without a look behind, a useless effort to bury the pieces of him that are Derek's. There's just too much to do to delve into this now, anyway.

 

“What is it?” Stiles asks, barging into the living room where the others are already engaged in an animated discussion.

“The hunter is here,” Rozenn answers him calmly, still sitting where she was when Stiles left, and staying outside the circle of the Pack and the conversation.

“How can you tell?” Scott kind of growls, not against her but because he's already unnerved by the presence of a threat closing in on them without this strange woman acting suspiciously on top of that.

“Because I remember him,” she says vaguely, eyes locked on Stiles as if trying to convey something through them that he doesn't catch. He sighs, grasps the fraying edges of her consciousness; he feels it constantly, like one sees the tip of their nose without registering it. He pulls on it.

She jolts minutely when he asks with his mind, _“Something to share with the class?”_

“ _You've learned to start the dialog quite fast.”_ She smiles, tilting her head in consideration. _“You have a lot more to learn and little time, I'm afraid.”_

“Well lucky for us,” he says out loud, making the others turn at the seemingly unprompted start, “I know a pro of training sessions,” he points at Allison, who looks puzzled but still smiles at him in her cute mischievous way.

 

“Alright, I think we got enough of the history lessons,” Stiles declares, turning on his heels in the entrance of Derek's house to face Rozenn.

It's the biggest room that doesn't have too much furniture, and the rest of the Pack needs the living room. They're still discussing how to deal with the hunter situation, not that Stiles has enough brain power to listen to their preparations from where he is.

Allison is standing at his side, because he trusts her to know how to make things efficient, and she's both kindly patient and taking no bullshit. If this improvised training session gets physical and Stiles falters, she'll know exactly when to push him and when to make him stop, where others could go too far or let him give up entirely.

Since Scott is in the other room and takes care of the planning, Derek has taken to sitting on the stairs to watch the whole thing silently, though his concentrating glower is so intense that it almost produces a low buzz at the edge of Stiles' hearing.

But he doesn't mind. He has two people he trusts in the room with him, soothing his frayed nerves a bit.

He's feeling wired up, excited and scared at the same time, his old anxiety simmering just below the surface and feeding the low anger he can feel macerating in his stomach. Being stressed and pissed off isn't the best combo. But it'll have to do.

Allison will be a good way to stop Stiles from losing it against Rozenn, too, since he still hasn't flushed out his frustration towards her and has no idea how to. His feelings are too tangled up for him to really understand them either way.

“Alright,” Allison says, crossing her arms, “this is the moment we need to get on with the practical aspects of being a vampire.” She turns an assessing eye towards Rozenn, as if judging her teaching abilities, then continues, “Namely, we need to know what Stiles is capable of, and at what level. He has to know what to expect of himself right now, since he won't have time to train a lot before this hunter gets here.”

Stiles mimics Allison's posture, and says, “Yeah, what can I actually do, and what is complete bullshit?”

“What do you think vampires _can_ do?” Rozenn shoots back. “My idea of humans' beliefs are surely outdated.”

“Okay, uuuh...,” Stiles thinks, “there's the whole super strength, super speed, super senses thing we touched on before,” he glances at Derek who nods back at him. “The weaknesses, like, garlic, crosses, the silver thing,” he counts on his fingers before hesitating. “It doesn't count but the no reflection issue _could_ be problematic in a public bathroom,” he jokes lamely, still earning a smile from Allison and Derek. He can't, for the life of him, remember if he looked at himself in a mirror or a window since turning.

“In Dracula there's a bit about grave dirt,” Derek pipes up, shrugging when Stiles raises his eyebrows at him.

“And the sunlight burning,” Allison adds. “And turning into a bat.”

“That'd be cool,” Stiles mutters to himself, though his heart isn't in it. The atmosphere is electric with urgency, and he finds it hard to alleviate it with any sincerity. “But the real questions are, uh...,” he clears his throat, “how fast I heal, and if– when,” he corrects himself, “I'll have to feed again.”

It's been a while since he has talked this much at once with the Pack nearby. It's not becoming a vampire that hammered it out of him, but having to fight constantly against the people who should've believed his instincts. Over and over, when he already knew who was the bad guy and no one listened until he stopped trying.

He decided to stop being bitter about that; the Pack got better at trusting his guts over the years, too. Resentment just takes a few years too long to be washed out from his system.

“What better teacher than experience,” Rozenn states, grabbing and releasing his hand faster than the eye can follow -faster than any of the wolves have ever moved.

Before he has time to register the sharp pain, the cut on his palm has disappeared. When Derek gets up, ready to fight, there's no trace of it, not even beads of blood.

“This was a thin, clean one. You will not always heal this quick.”

“What the hell!” Stiles exclaims when he's found his voice again, one hand holding the wrist of the one that's been hurt for all of a second. “You could have– warn a guy next time!” he's panting heavily, looking down at his unmarked hand. He knows it doesn't hurt, knows it never really did, but there's a phantom ache right there, something that unsettles him. He can't pinpoint what, exactly, except that he'd rather see a trace of what just happened so his brain would stop feeling like it's standing on the deck of a ship in the middle of a violent sea.

“If you do anything else like this,” Derek growls but doesn't continue. He might be leaving the threat unspoken to sound more menacing, or he might be painfully aware that he can't do a thing against Rozenn by himself.

It's funny how no one has seen her in action, but they all know she's more powerful than most of the Pack together.

Allison clears her throat, and Stiles turns to her just in time to catch the minute relaxing of her shoulders, the way her hand moves away from the concealed sheath at her back.

Everyone in here is ready to protect him, and Stiles wonders what he's done to deserve it. He sure as hell never protected any of them -he's tried and some would say that's enough, but to him it's just another way he's failed.

He looks down. “What about the rest?” he asks in a small voice, so unlike himself that he can feel everyone present looking at him in surprise.

Rozenn sighs before asking in a placating voice that borders on sarcasm, “Can I touch you?”

“Hey, no need to use that tone. We're not in the century you came from okay?” Allison interjects.

Stiles simply nods, but raises his head enough to give Allison a grateful smile. Rozenn takes Stiles by the shoulders and turns him to the left, and it takes him a moment to understand what she's showing him. All he sees is the back of the hall behind the stairs, where there's a closet for basically anything that doesn't fit elsewhere in the house, the door to the small room turned into a library, and a pretty window.

Derek had it specially made, using old drawings found in a storage unit somewhere. His mom, before she became head of the family and didn't have time for it anymore, used to design all kind of beautiful pieces; mirrors, windows, whole rooms.

This one mixes clear and opaque glass, painted and not, like a puzzle that doesn't make sense until you take a step back and it transforms before your eyes into a flower. When the sun hits just right in the afternoon, especially in December when it's low, it casts colored light on the dark wood of the floor.

Stiles often used to find Derek leaning on the wall of the open entrance to the living room, sipping a cup of tea while looking at the lit window. It's late into the night now, though, so it looks almost dull.

The memories make it hard for Stiles to understand what he's supposed to see, until he notes how funny the scattered reflections are from the fragmented pieces of clear glass.

He turns to Rozenn, eyes wide. “Okay, so the mirror thing is bullshit too.”

Rozenn looks to the side, seeming deep in thought.

“All those legends _have_ to come from somewhere though, don't they?” Lydia's voice rings from the living room, and Stiles turns to find her watching the scene with interested eyes. “There's some truth about all of the things Stiles mentioned. After all, you said,” she turns her observing gaze to Rozenn, “that many gods made many different creatures that became vampires in human's beliefs, right?”

Rozenn tilts her head, something like a spark in her eyes. Lydia has that effect on people; the exciting prospect of having someone to share a conversation with who knows a lot, understands fast, and asks the right questions, Stiles knows.

“It's a little more complicated than that,” Rozenn smiles. “But at the core of it, your theory is right. Many gods, many differences. But you see, just as humans come from hundreds of different myths of creations and still remain a single species, so do we. We're all vampires, and again, as humans, our worst weaknesses come from our minds. Beliefs are key.”

“So you're saying, what,” Stiles catches on immediately, “that a Christian would've believed they were...,” he looks for the word, “ _godforsaken_? So crosses would've been an actual working weapon against them? And let's say, as stupid as it sounds, someone with a severe garlic allergy would've thought they could still die eating it so it became their weakness for real?” Stiles says, starting pacing the length of the hall while thinking furiously.

“Something of that effect.”

“So when you say I need to experiment, you mean I need to find what I'd think myself into being weak about?”

“Since you didn't really believe in all the things that were carried on about vampires, you won't be afraid of religious signs or vegetables, I guess,” Allison says with a way too serious face considering her statement, “but you do need to find quickly what the hunter could use against you. He might come at you with a spike for all we know.”

“Well, a thick and large piece of wood would do the trick against almost any creatures, but hunters rarely carry those impractical things around anymore,” Rozenn says. A heavy silence falls after she's done talking, making her look around curiously and noticing how they glance at each other.

Stiles is the first to break, to hell with the atmosphere, and soon enough the four of them are laughing so hard the rest of the Pack comes to see what the commotion is all about.

“What the hell? We're in a _situation_ here,” Isaac says, clearly more upset that he doesn't know what they're laughing about than about the inappropriateness of it.

“It's just,” Stiles laughs, notes that even Derek chuckles when he's usually much more reserved in front of the whole Pack, “it does the _trick_.”

“What did I say?” Rozenn asks, frustrated. “Wha– _oh doeëlez_ , you!” she suddenly gets it, “You nasty–! I–!” she loses her words, and it's so funny to see her so worked up when she's usually so proper that the laughing doubles.

“Okay, calm down kids,” the Sheriff suddenly intervenes in that voice that always managed to quiet Stiles immediately. “Can we resume the important work?” he continues, though his little smile doesn't hide the fact that he's amused at the situation, relieved at seeing Stiles laugh, even if he doesn't know the reason behind it.

That, much than anything, sobers Stiles up. He doesn't know why, but his good humor being acknowledged as something good makes him sick.

He wants to make his dad happy, to reassure him that everything is fine, and do the same for Derek and for everyone else in the Pack. But he hates the thought of actually enjoying himself when everything is so dark: the Pack faces danger again _because of him_ , Derek got hurt _by him_ , his dad almost had to bury the last of his family because Stiles couldn't stop attracting danger for two damn minutes.

And worst of all, people already died.

He wants to get better, he does, for everyone else's sake, but he remembers the taste of blood on his tongue and the hatred in his heart that made him get close enough to his attacker to smell him just like he smelled Derek, nose buried in his neck. The violence of having to touch the one who hurt you, _taste them_ , flesh on lips on tongue between teeth and–

Stiles runs to the kitchen, because the bathroom is too far away. It doesn't have a door and he feels so vulnerable where anyone can see but it's too late and he throws up.

It's not blood, it's only bile, and he's weirdly grateful about that. He just wishes these memories would stop surging up randomly.

“It's alright, it's alright,” Derek's voice sounds in his ears, and Stiles dry sobs but thankfully doesn't heave up anymore. “Can I touch you?” Stiles starts shaking his head no, but he's so desperate to be proven he's still good enough to be held that he frantically nods instead. Derek runs his hand in circles on Stiles' back, shushing him and telling him the others are just worried, are waiting in the living room for him when Stiles babbles incoherently about being seen by them.

When he's calmed down enough to unclasp his hands from the counter -that he notes is barely dented, having been chosen to be resistant to werewolf strength- he slides down until his back is to the cabinets under the sink and he's sitting down on the floor.

Derek joins him after taking the time to run some water in the sink and spraying a neutral product that gets rid of the smell without irritating sensitive noses.

“Wanna talk about it?” he says, handing a glass of water to Stiles, who takes it in a shaky hand.

He gulps it down, as much to try and get rid of the awful taste as to keep the words inside. He wants to, but he can't. Not with everyone else able to hear it, save three people who'll hear it second hand. Not to Derek, because Stiles wants someone to absolve him but Derek's forgiveness would feel unearned. When someone loves you, how can they not be biased towards your actions?

“How can you not be towards your own?” a voice echoes faintly in his memory. He doesn't even remember who said that to him.

But Stiles cant' put that burden on–

He sighs. He's really running in circles isn't he? What was it, that Allison said to him once? If people are sticking by you for years, at some point it would be harder for them to pretend to care about you than to just leave. _If you don't trust yourself, trust us_.

Where did she get that emotional maturity, he asks himself, and how does one get to that level? Thinking about that conversation brings him a little comfort. He still can't talk about it now, but he does consider finding a way to at a later time.

Therapy, like his dad. That might not be a bad idea.

Right now he's just hungry for basic food, his nausea and the burning in his throat come and gone -probably the healing- and leaving behind a stomach wondering what all the fuss was about.

 

“We need to talk,” Lydia says when Stiles comes out of the kitchen with a little food in him, Derek on his heels. “Because the important conversation about your abilities isn't over, and because I have some things to say to you.”

Stiles glances at Derek but he doesn't find any help there. Derek shrugs, and moves towards the living room where, if Stiles focuses a little, an argument about grenades is taking place (Isaac wants, Allison refuses, Erica starts very helpfully singing Bruno Mars).

Lydia grabs Stiles and directs him to the library -the second best soundproof room, though not as much as Derek's bedroom, Stiles notes. He was there when Derek made most of the plans for the house. This room is supposed to be quiet enough to read, but not cut off from the rest to the point of not hearing any cry for help.

“ _Or calls to eat an awesome dinner,”_ Stiles had said in a half teasing, half sad tone, _“it's not always bad things that we should be able to hear.”_ Derek had smiled, then, but said nothing.

The room is not simply full of books. It's floor to ceiling, no walls left bare full of books. There's the most comfortable and ugliest armchair of the house near the window, throw pillows and blankets haphazardly strewn about the place, and a small table with a lamp on it that they light up. It's low enough not to make his eyes feel dry as the desert when he looks around.

They still have to go around piles of books to get to the best part: the window bench large enough for two and their mugs of hot beverages -in the afternoon it's coffee for Stiles, tea for Derek, and not enough days when this happened before he had to leave for college, in his opinion.

Stiles wonders when he became so comfortable around Derek's house that domestic scenes like these didn't even make him blink. It feels so far away and weird now, like back then he had mastered a way of being close to Derek without letting the unsaid make the air heavy around them.

Lydia sits and pats the bench next to her. Stiles sits down on the plush pillow, lets the tranquility of the room soothe his nerves. He doesn't need to sleep much -especially now that he's stronger- but he can see the dark circles starting to form under Lydia's eyes. He feels so bad for making them all stay up through the night, especially since they have to stay sharp until this all blows over -and they have no idea when that could be.

Stiles hopes they'll have a bit of down time before shit hits the fan, so that everyone who needs to can catch some sleep.

He coughs nervously when Lydia stays silent a little too long.

“So...,” he starts, hoping she'll pick up the thread.

“To sum it up,” she says too quickly, without looking at him, “you can run fast, hear and smell better, and you're probably as strong as the wolves too.”

“Yeah I did break my car door,” he chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Lydia blinks at him like she wonders what she did to be friends with someone so stupid. “You didn't think of mentioning that earlier?”

Stiles doesn't answer, keeps his gaze on the bookshelf right in front of him. Mismatched paperbacks and hardcovers. Derek has a _system_ but Stiles can't find the logic in it. It helps him focus on anything else than the feel of bones breaking under his desperate hands, though.

He swallows heavily, and Lydia doesn't press.

“I felt it, you know?” she whispers. Stiles looks away, because whatever she's referring to -himself or the ones he killed- he doesn't want to understand.

“You see better in the dark,” she continues like nothing happened, “according to Rozenn. And by the way, how did she happen?”

Stiles laughs, turns to Lydia with a shrug. “I don't know, she just did. Said she felt me and wanted to help, some bullshit about kids and loneliness.”

“You're mad at her,” Lydia guesses, “because she's why you're turned. Indirectly, but still.”

Stiles takes the time to think his words through. “I'm mad at her because she makes it sound like I shouldn't hate what I've become while telling us she's just a discarded toy that rotted until it got bad. And yeah, because I– I need to be mad at someone right now, I guess. It's easier.” He looks down at his hands, relaxes his fingers before he pokes holes into the pillow. Derek would throw a disappointed glance his way and it would be very hard to live with. It's custom made.

“Yeah, I was pretty mad at...well everyone, really.” It's different for Lydia, though. Not only did she get attacked because no one could kill psycho Peter correctly, but everyone tried to act like nothing happened to her while she was alone with her powers.

Stiles just blames a woman born centuries ago who could be his vampire grandmother three times removed, for all he knows.

Or however family trees work. Stiles wouldn't really know, he doesn't have much of an extended one.

“Do you fear the sun?”

“It was the thing I was really worried about,” he answers. “Apparently I'm just sensitive because my eyes are still adjusting or whatever, but from what we just learned I think I believed it would hurt me too much. It does feel like it would burn me if I got into sunlight.”

Lydia ponders that for a second. “So no tanning for a while. Good for your skin, shame for your pale ass.”

“Hey!” Stiles retorts before chuckling with her. It feels good, to see her smiling. Even if she becomes serious pretty fast again, and Stiles is pretty sure it just means she's waiting for the right moment to kick his ass about everything.

“What's your weakness, Stiles?” she asks softly, looking at him like she's never seen him before. It makes him squirm in place and shrug.

“What isn't? The whole Pack is my weakness if you think about it in a classic villain move.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean.”

Stiles hums, nodding. But as much as he thinks, he still has no idea what it could be. He's not religious, he's not allergic to anything -if that's how the garlic thing really works, which he will assume it does until someone refutes it. He doesn't have a phobia of any kind that could be used to actually kill him -tight spaces will not make him bleed out and drowning would hurt anyone so it's a pretty rational fear all in all.

“Maybe he'll just _kill me_ , you know?” he says, “Like, vampires can't be invincible, there's got to be something that works. Cutting a creature's head seems pretty efficient to me,” he muses.

Lydia hits him hard on the shoulder, and he turns to her ready to be vocally offended by it until he sees the rage on her face, the tears in her eyes. She grabs his arm in a hold that would've been painful before. “Don't you dare die again, Stilinski,” she snarls, and he thinks they've spent too much time with the wolves, the both of them.

He feels guilty for what he just said, even if it stands true. Finding his weakness feels stupid, when killing something could happen any other simpler way. He puts his hand on hers, waiting for her to loosen her fingers, then takes her hand in his. “I won't,” he says. “All the people left standing at my funeral, yeah?” he reminds her, “I won't, I promise.”

“Can you really promise that kind of thing?” she sniffs wetly.

Stiles laughs lightly, “Make up your mind, Lyds.” She slaps him on the shoulder, but gently this time.

“You're alive,” she whispers, putting her head on his shoulder. “You died for a minute and it felt–” she hesitates, “it was so strong everyone felt it. I had to call the whole Pack to tell them it didn't...hold.”

“I'm alive, then,” he states. “Even if I don't have to eat actual food as much, and sleep, and–”

“You're like a monk,” she interrupts him. “You didn't train for it but your body is just slower.”

“Is that monks' science talk?”

“Shut up. I'm dumbing things down for you,” she huffs.

It helps, this moment. He feels better, having talked to her like this. He feels ready to go back to the whirlwind waiting for them behind the library door.

 

“So what's the plan?” Stiles asks coming into the living room, as if nothing happened, as if he didn't use to be the one with the plan. He just can't think straight about this, because it's about him and it's putting at risk the others so he could never decide on any strategy when he knows it puts his loved ones in harm's way.

He's not the son of a cop to ignore why someone has to stay away from cases that become too personal.

The room becomes quiet for an awkward second, before everyone tries to summarize all that's been said at the same time.

“Shut up,” Lydia says forcefully, not shouting put putting enough strength in her voice that it carries through their bones. She doesn't use her Banshee's powers often but she's gotten very good at controlling them in ways no one but her could've thought about. The silence now feels more reprimanded than embarrassed.

“First of all, Stiles, are you okay?” Scott breaks the quiet. Stiles glances at his father, who looks so worried -Stiles definitely has another Talk in his future- and nods.

“I will be once this is dealt with,” he says with as much confidence as he can muster. Everyone knows it's not exactly a lie, even if it's not exactly true either, so they let it slide for now.

“Second of all, Rozenn,” Lydia picks up where Scott left off, turning to the woman who is still standing apart from the Pack, “you still haven't answered about when Stiles needs to feed next.”

Stiles can't help but flinch a little when it's said so bluntly by someone else. He can say it himself with ease, because it's his new reality and he _has_ to adapt fast or get run over by it -though one could argue that Stiles' ease with words has been proven false by his actions.

But when Lydia says it, it just sounds so bad.

He understands that werewolves are not the monsters they're said to be, and he gets that this truth extends to himself as far as the Pack is concerned.

Trust them, he repeats to himself, and holds on to the bond he feels deep inside his soul, nested tightly against his heart where it feels warm and pulses with the beat of all their hearts. He's still part of the Pack, and it settles him down.

Rozenn tilts her head, her curiosity prodding at the bond, and Stiles thinks she's about to ask about it until, without looking away from him, she answers, “He's still young, and weak. How long was it in between–”

“I don't know,” Stiles interrupts her before she can say it out loud. “Maybe four or five days?” It's fuzzy, the time of the attack and then staggering into his senses and his hunger, finding a prey but realizing too late what he's done, panicking and driving at night while cowering under blankets during the day, unable to sleep, in pain, starving. Not even able to actually cry about it, to release the feelings eating him from the inside out.

He shakes himself away from it to avoid another incident in front of everyone else. Dammit, he feels so fragile with his constant breakdowns.

“So I would say about a week, a week and a half now. You have your...Pack. For strength. But you will have to fight so it might change. If you want to feel in control,” _less monstrous_ , Stiles thinks, and she seems to hear it with the way her eyes show disappointment. Like she really believes they're not abominations. She continues after that short unexpected pause, “You can drink something less powerful more often until you regain a sufficient constitution. As I said before, chicken blood would work just fine, just not as well.”

“Alright,” Scott says, looking like that this is his personal mission now. Not letting Stiles die of hunger, or attack someone because of it, or have to use humans or werewolves again. It doesn't help with the feeling of being _wrong_.

“We're no evil creatures, Stiles. Is that so hard to believe?” Rozenn asks, regret in her voice.

Stiles' anger is ignited again, and he can't reign it in even with everyone's eyes on him. “Tell me, are human's lives worth so little to you that you don't feel disgusting from literally eating a part of them?”

She blinks, “I do not have to feed often, and I never do it unkindly. I know your consent was taken aw–”

She can't finish before Stiles interrupts her. “Do you hear yourself? Never unkindly? What does that even mean? Do you honestly believe it makes it better to ask permission when it's to hurt people? When we can do that to them? What about that doesn't make us _monsters_ exactly, when the only choice we have is to hunt chickens to avoid _killing_ _people_?”

“I never kill–” Rozenn starts with a frown but suddenly Stiles yelps and yells, “What the fuck, Erica?”

For the second time in the night, he hold his wrist close to himself, where he was just _bitten_. She used blunt, human teeth, but still, she held on strong and long enough that he actually felt the pain of it.

“No one needs fangs to be able to hurt people, Stilinski. Isn't it the point? Humans do that to themselves and others fine on their own, they don't need us,” she says with a smirk that is less humorous than full of despise. He remembers her epilepsy, before, and the kids at school taking pictures of her in the middle of a seizure and his heart sinks. He looks down, but she's not finished with him though her tone is more gentle. “We _are_ monsters, alright? People are scared of us because we're more and less than them at the same time. We do inhuman things, like growing fur and tools that can hurt, but our hearts,” she puts her hand on his chest, “they beat and break like any other. People don't want to believe that because what's different is bad and that's how they survived as a species. But we're not bad people. We're not abominations,” she echoes his thought without knowing it, and he suddenly remembers where he heard the word before. When he said to Derek...when he basically told him he was not that, either. “We just make mistakes sometimes. And we _fix_ them. And if some human or whatever else gets off on being a meal, then what's wrong with that, actually?” and she smirks again but it's her dirty smile with this twinkle in her eyes that he loves so much.

Well, when she turns that smirk on Derek and winks, Stiles blushes and hates her a little, but Derek doesn't deny nor agree with the sentiment. He just turns red and looks away.

Stiles doesn't know how he can fix his mistakes; he can't undo his attack, he can't bring anyone back to life.

But he owes to everyone looking at him...not with pity, but with love, tenderness, worry. He owes them to try and fix this hunter business, at least.

Trust them, he remembers.

Despite all his instincts telling him to run off and deal with this alone, he holds one to two thoughts. The first being that he worked his ass off for this Pack to stop being so damn individualist when it came to running into danger. And the second is that to them, he already died once. He promised Lydia, and by extension all of them. They won't be forced to watch him be lowered down into the earth, not for many, many years.

However long vampires and werewolves live, anyway.

 

“So we're going to try and talk, right?” Stiles asks without really asking, because he knows Scott too well. Punch them in the face and ask later isn't his go-to.

“In the safer way possible, yeah,” Scott answers, shifting his weight from leg to leg. “We don't know how much this guy knows about us–”

“He is the most competent hunter you will find this side of the Oceane Sea.”

“The what?”

“The Atlantic.” Allison smiles when Isaac asks her how she even knows that, but doesn't answer.

“So we can guess he knows a lot, including where to find us.”

“How...,” Boyd starts, hesitates when he sees everyone looking at him -he still hates talking in large groups of people- but continues, “how did he get all those informations in this short time? How did he even know about Stiles turning?” he glances at Stiles to gauge his reaction, but Stiles doesn't really care. And it's a good point.

“This one,” Rozenn says, “has no qualms allying himself with low grade witches and the like. Energy readers, even the lesser ones, can sense the displacement of energy of a turn if that is what they're focusing on. Even from a large distance.”

Isaac sighs, “So he's a bit of a hypocrite? Shocking news.”

“Actually it makes sense in a way,” Lydia says, “since witchery can be considered a religion by some, and more of a 'as bad as the user' kind of thing. Creatures don't have the luxury of being human enough to have that sort of free pass, and it could be argued that they're driven by wild instincts.”

“They have their own ignorant hunters to cause them trouble though,” Allison clicks her tongue disapprovingly at the thought.

“Back to the point, maybe?” Stiles' dad interrupts. “He's competent and he's well informed about us, so the plan...,” he turns to Scott to continue even though he seems to want to do that himself. It makes Stiles smile, to see his dad in Sheriff mode but willing to let the young ones take the lead, as frustrating as that appears to be for him.

“We called Argent, to organize backup. Maybe being faced with another family will make the guy reconsider attacking, or make it easier to open him to talk.”

“We don't have a lot of men left,” Allison warns, “but it will be enough to at least look serious. I'll go with Scott, my dad, and Stiles' dad to meet him first. Try to negotiate something.”

“Do you even know where he is? Or if he'll even consent to talk?” Derek asks. There's this frown on his face, too light to be completely noticed if you don't look for it, but it speaks even more about his worry than if he wasn't trying to hide it like that. Stiles finds himself taking a step closer to him.

“Well he's already passed into Hale territory,” Allison answers, “but he's old school according to my dad's intel. He's staying in a motel for the night near the border of _our_ limit of authority. It's old hunter etiquette, never meeting at night and never stepping on another family's toes. He actually left a signal for a meeting, so that's half our job done on that front. But he might not be very inclined to listen to a werewolves' hunters' family that lives close to a Pack without doing shit about it...anymore,” she amends with an embarrassed glance at Derek. “Our reputation isn't what it used to be.”

“Alright, so we invoke parlay,” Stiles says with fake enthusiasm. “And when it inevitably fails, what's our options?”

“First of all, we're warding the house here, and relocating to another warded area,” Lydia answers. But she looks at Stiles then and grimaces, “Can you still do those?”

“Wards?” Rozenn tilts her head curiously. She becomes fuzzy for all of a second, just as Stiles feels her prodding in a more focused way at his consciousness, making it hard to stay anchored. Stiles still has a hard time wrapping his head around the whole time thing, but he's too busy pushing her away with his mind to bother thinking about it.

“So _that_ is why you are so special,” Rozenn chuckles lightly.

“I thought you already knew everything,” Stiles snarls back at her, but not meanly. He feels vaguely stupid at the image of a small dog snapping its teeth ineffectively at the teasing hand.

“ _Almost_ everything,” she answers with a bit a humor. “I could not quite grasp what made you unusual. It's the first time I meet a druid's pupil in...well. A very long time.”

“Are you saying Deaton made Stiles weird?” Isaac pipes up, “Because it's maybe the one thing I'm not sure Deaton should be blamed for. He was hella weird before the whole mountain ash whatever,” he waves his fingers around in a spooky gesture.

“I always knew yer a wizard,” Erica snorts.

“Can we _please_ get the two movie nerds out of the conversation?” Scott sighs just before everyone starts talking at the same time. Stiles catches Erica shooting back at Scott that he _does_ know the movies references too before the noise becomes too much for him and he winces back.

“Alright enough!” Derek growls, catching Stiles' elbow to steady him. Any room full of humans wouldn't have heard the command, but the wolves react on instinct and quiet down, much to the relief of everyone that wasn't involved in whatever argument rose in the minute the cacophony lasted.

Stiles sends a grateful glance at Derek, and is content to let him forget that he's holding Stiles' arm for as long as it lasts.

“What does it change? Stiles being...Deaton's apprentice?” the Sheriff asks, parental worry in his eyes. Stiles keeps himself from saying that he's _not_ Deaton's apprentice– for a lot of reasons.

First, he hates this 'maintaining the balance' idea that is, to him, a great idea in theory but too much of an excuse to do nothing to help. Deaton is also too cryptic, but like a dude that wants to look cool. It pisses Stiles off. Lastly, Deaton said one vague thing about Stiles having or being a spark, which apparently is something emissaries are -or have- but was never quite clear about what that means. Is it something anyone can do? Or just a somewhat genetic specificity?

All in all, once Stiles knew he could multiply mountain ash like a supernatural Jesus, he did his own research because Deaton never offered much and Stiles didn't go asking. He did borrow some books from the vet, with his blessing, but it hardly makes him his apprentice.

“It makes the situation more advantageous,” Rozenn answers. “It makes him different from any other vampire before. Less likely to lose himself to the madness that comes with being so forcefully ripped from time, which he doesn't seem to be. And the cravings will be easier to control eventually.”

“You're different, too,” Derek notes with some accusation in his voice.

“Because I came first,” she retorts calmly. “I almost lost myself when I was left behind by my makers and everything they made me turned on me. Where they wanted an immortal that never bled, I became nothing more than a stick carried away in strong currents, and blood became something of an obsession. I only prevailed because I still had some of their strength in me, too. It's what most of us became, in the end, when the old religions came to be too forgotten.”

“Yeah, your myths of creation theory,” Lydia waves away before anyone can ask more about it. “The important thing is whether Stiles can still do wards or not. Because we need to protect this house,” she says, looking at Derek, “and then we need to go somewhere less obvious and protect that place too.”

“The fire of druids is not easily extinguished,” Rozenn says haughtily, like she's the one with the power.

“Alright, so warding before the end of the night,” Stiles announces, less sure of himself than he let's on. Despite what Rozenn says, he's scared it won't work. He doesn't want the Hale house to be a target again, not after everything Derek put into rebuilding it.

Stiles looks at him and finds him with his free hand in the back pocket of his jeans. Where the key to the basement is. Stiles told himself this had to be a conversation, but he'd forgotten all about it.

“So talking is plan A,” the Sheriff says, “with everyone else staying safe while it happens and in case it doesn't work. But if the guy is as strong as Rozenn says,” he slows down on the name, his mistrust showing a little, “wards might do nothing. So we need to be ready to fight him.”

Though Rozenn could be a huge help, neither the Pack nor herself include her in the plan. The Pack because they don't know if they can rely on her, and herself because...

It makes Stiles frown, that she doesn't even try, because she seems pretty intent on imposing herself into his life so the least she could do is fight alongside them.

Still, he trusts her to have his best interests at heart, at least, because he can _feel_ her in a way he couldn't explain. It could be a trick, he's well aware of that, but the certainty that it's not comes from the same place inside of him that lets him see the evil in people. He does understand, though, that despite her not doing anything against them so far, the Pack and his dad stay wary of her.

It's still crazy to think that the situation was so bad before that Derek left her be the one to welcome Scott and his dad and explain it all to them.

“How hard could fighting _one_ dude be?” Erica retorts, looking nonchalant to the untrained eye. Stiles looks at her and sees the ghost of Gerard Argent on her face. Boyd gets closer to her and takes her hand, needing to reassure her as much as himself. Stiles looks away.

He's not sure anyone _knows_ – but then Derek squeezes his arm, and Stiles turns to him sharply and locks eyes with him. It makes his heart beat slightly faster because Derek is _here_ and he feels safer for it.

All the wolves smirk at him when he turns back to them, except Scott who continues with the plan. “We can never be too sure. We need to be ready for anything. As far as we know he's had a perfect score in vampire hunting before, and that means he probably has a few tricks up his sleeve that we've never seen before.”

Stiles has to admit that he tunes out after that. Determination floods him as he looks around at the living room, warm and beautiful and so much Derek and the Pack that he can't let anything happen to it.

For the first time since his life turned upside down -again- he starts planning wards in his head, drawing them in his mind and placing them on his internal map of the place, making them easier to execute afterwards and stronger, too. He starts believing that he can do this -that comes from its own form of training. He pictures it working, he squares his shoulders and widens his stance to project a air of confidence. Looking strong helps him from the outside in to feel it.

And he can't ignore that Derek not breaking contact is its own type of power source for him.

He can take on the world, like this.


	12. Chapter 12

“Kid, before I leave,” Stiles' dad says, Allison waiting patiently by the door while he lingers back. He hesitates, like he's not even sure himself of what he wants to say.

Stiles stands there waiting, arms full of equipment for the wards, that Derek apparently kept safe on its own shelf in the garage. Stiles didn't even know there was a garage, actually, since the cars are always out in front, but it seems it serves more as a work-out and crafting area.

“I know,” Stiles says quickly, both trying to avoid another heavy conversation and because he can hear Isaac getting impatient in the attic where Stiles asked him to bring him a few other stuff for the wards.

There's some very unflattering muttered words that Stiles swears Isaac will pay for.

“No, son, I–” John turns to look at Allison, who fiddles with the hidden hilt of her knife impatiently, though she stands there perfectly still otherwise. John looks back at Stiles, rubbing his brow with one hand. Stiles gets it; 'I love you' is the wrong shape for Stilinskis' throats. They're men of hugs and pats on the back.

“As much as I hate to say it,” the Sheriff starts again, looking Stiles in the eyes like he wants him to _understand_ , “you took after me.”

Stiles opens his mouth to says something, though he has no idea what, but he doesn't get the chance before his dad continues.

“I'm so, so proud of you, but I'm so scared because I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did.” He looks down, clears his throat, and Stiles just knows he's trying to hide the wetness of his eyes. Yes, they're too much alike, aren't they? “But then most of your smarts come from your mother, so,” he smiles as he raises his head, like he just came to a good conclusion right now, “somehow I know you'll be a lot better than I could ever be.”

Stiles smells something coming from his dad, under the salt of unshed tears and the sweat, under the natural scent that resembles nothing else but his father and family; it's bitter at the back of his mouth, almost hungry. It makes his nerves fire up and send burning signals along his muscles. He clenches his fists, confused and hating what his dad is feeling right now, even though he has no idea what that is exactly.

He wants to trust his instincts to name this for him, but all he gets is a fleeting memory of looking through the neck of a bottle of whiskey, seeing the clear bottom of it and a few golden drops dancing alone along the curve of the glass.

He shies away from the image, takes an aborted step forward following a primal need to comfort and be comforted. He's still wary of getting too close to the blood under his father's skin, but throws caution to the wind and finishes what he started.

Like many times before, they might die tonight, and Stiles will not part ways on a missed opportunity to feel his dad's embrace. They both sink into the hug, the same height now and something about it hurts. A childhood long gone and with it the certainty that a parent's arms are the safest place in the whole world.

He inhales deeply, nose buried in the collar of the uniform he used to try on as a kid. “I'm damn proud to be just like you,” he mutters there, against the pulsing vein that will take his words straight to his father's heart.

“Alright then,” John breaks the embrace. “We're Stilinskis,” he declares like that means something specific, but doesn't elaborate on what exactly. He claps Stiles shoulders, and without any hesitation goes to Allison. They leave, not turning back once, the door slowly closing behind them so only their retreating steps mark their fading presence. The car engine rumbles as it starts up, and then it's a deep silence that Stiles can't break with a single move.

 

“You okay?” Erica asks, leaning on the doorway to the attic. It's a full on movie style one, high enough to be its own floor of the house but with a tilted ceiling, wood beams visible along the open plan, golden dust flying around in the sunlight. Which is tamed now by sheets hastily hung up like Erica and Isaac could in front of the skylights. Stiles kind of regrets it, because the few times he came up here he liked having nothing to see but infinite blue and drifting clouds over the house, like standing on a flying boat.

But he has work to do, and he sets up to do just that. “Yeah,” he answers distractedly, “yeah. I'm just...trying to figure out this scent thing.” It's not the complete truth, but it's still something. If he is to have theses senses when he never asked for them, he at least wants to use them properly, but he has no idea how he's supposed to link scent to emotion.

It's also a good distraction from the hunter that his family and friends are out to meet face to face. From people he loves on the front line for him, when they have no guaranty of this guy's honesty.

Erica hums as she stands straight and turns her back to lead the way inside. “I can already tell you that what I'm smelling on you is a wonderful cocktail I like to call the _Pity Party_.” It's said with humor but enough bite that Stiles can't hold back a sound of outrage.

Erica turns back to him, eyes hard against her sweet smile. She's never more wolf than when she's sharp like this. It just tells Stiles how worried she is.

“I can't stop being anxious,” he says, soft.

“But you can stop feeling like the world revolves around you and your guilt,” she answers, looking away like she doesn't like saying this. Stiles isn't exactly fond of hearing it either, thinks it's unfair of her. Not exactly untrue, but not completely right. Almost cruel. But it reminds Stiles that he's not the only one with these feelings. Erica gave him her version of a pep talk, but did Stiles try to talk to her about what happened to him, and how that could have made her feel? He did with Lydia. For all that his attack and turning belongs to him, and he's entitled to think about himself first, he also wants to acknowledge that the Pack has suffered for it. He loves them for it, even if he will try not to bear it on top of his own issues.

“I'm just worried about you,” she says eventually, looking up with more open eyes. It's the closest she'll come to say sorry, Stiles knows, it's an Erica thing.

“I know,” he says, shrugging like it's no big deal. He tries putting everything behind this one word, hopes she can understand him.

“You smell like you're about to voluntarily roll over and die if you're pushed too far, and we all know that your tipping point is not that far actually.”

Stiles has nothing to say to that, no reassurance. Because he knows that his life for one of theirs is not a hard deal. He knows exactly how much he'd hate it the other way around, but he would understand. Not one person in the Pack doesn't get it. He made a promise, though, to himself and to Lydia and by extension to all of them.

“I'll fight as hard as I can,” he swears. It's all he has to offer, but Erica's shoulders drop enough to tell him she trusts his words.

“So, wards now?” Isaac pipes up from where he's sitting on the floor surrounded by stuff Stiles was sure had been thrown out after he finished high school. He looks suspiciously close to tears behind his nonchalant air, but Stiles doesn't call him out on it. Isaac and Boyd are more sensitive than they seem, but Stiles isn't sure they're open enough to one another for the kind of talk he's ready to have with other people.

“Wards,” Stiles answers, and rolls his sleeves up to get to work.

 

Stiles goes back downstairs after what feels like hours. He's not actually sure how much time has passed; he tried to go as fast as he could, but the level of focus he needed to do this kind of low-key magic after months without makes his head feel full of cotton.

He's covered in paint and shaving of woods -he'll apologize to Derek for ruining several floorboards and beams, but he's pretty sure he should've done this a long time ago so he's not exactly sorry about it.

“Well, that was boring,” Isaac says, going to sit on the couch.

“Will it hold?” Lydia asks from the table, half buried in massive volumes next to Rozenn. The woman looks very irritated, so no doubt Lydia has been bombarding her with question about vampire-ness. She surely knows more about it than Stiles now, and a part of him likes it that way. It's like part of the burden isn't his.

“Of course it'll hold,” he huffs back, “I'm slower than before but I'm not _that_ rusty.”

“You should have kept practicing,” she bites back haughtily. “And don't tell me it's because you were worried about grades.”

Stiles doesn't want to say what everyone in the room already knows anyway: Stiles had been looking for as much normalcy as he could before his inevitable come back to Beacon Hills. It has never been a question of escaping forever, for him.

“So we relocate,” Derek says, coming back into the living room with a crate of what appears to be canned food and some fresh stuff, Boyd in tow with another box in his hands. Stiles has no idea what's inside, but his best guess is practical things like portable cooking appliances and hygiene related goods.

“We've already packed the cars with sleeping bags for tonight,” Boyd adds, “so if you need anything else you best get it in the next ten minutes.”

Erica and Isaac share one look before running upstairs, while Lydia sighs. “It's not a _sleepover_ ,” she says for the two wolves that have already exited the room, “and I hope this'll be done before tomorrow night at the latest.”

“One way or another,” Rozenn trails off to let her words sink in, as if the atmosphere wasn't already tense to begin with, then she adds, “he's not the type for a siege in any case. So it will either be a fight or the parlay will be successful.” By her tone, Stiles can guess which one she thinks more likely.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks.

Derek shrugs. “The train depot.”

“...You've got to be kidding me.”


	13. Chapter 13

The worst part, as it always is, is the waiting. Stiles tries to take his mind off things -off the fact that the negotiations should have ended by now, right?- by setting up another set of wards at the train depot. Still as damp, gray and rusty as ever.

He mixes techniques from various grimoires he found on the internet, in old libraries, or at Deaton's. He created his own sigils too, but he doesn't have much left to trace them on the walls.

And he's running low on energy. He suspects that if he keeps doing this he'll be craving blood soon. He's starting to feel an ache at the base of his skull, impending migraine, and he's not very fond of either the return of the withdrawal symptoms or having to drink _someone_ to avoid the worst. It's not like they could go hunt a chicken or too at the moment, and he's not a fan of the idea of drinking sewer rats.

He's not really keen to feed on his Pack either anyway. He tells himself it's not because of the act itself, that he's actually okay with being a vampire; especially now that he has the Pack's acceptance to back him up. He convinces himself that it's because they need everyone in top shape in case they have to fight, and even werewolf healing wouldn't compensate fast enough for anemia; but it's like considering his friends as weapons they need to keep charged and it makes him feel worse.

“You doing okay?” Derek asks, coming to join Stiles in the damp corner he's trying to use to draw his protection ward, thankfully the last of the bunch. He's really, very spent.

“How did you manage to live here?” Stiles grumbles under his breath, aware that he's loud enough to be heard by Derek. It's been years since he lost the habit of talking to himself because he's learned the hard way that wolves will use anything against you. Everything out of his mouth -when he's in his right mind anyway- is on purpose. And he's cranky.

Derek huffs, crouches next to him to look at the drawing. It's a mixture of classic western symbolism and some hanzi he learned to draw by heart from an old scroll -he doesn't know their exact meaning, only their intent. It's all in the belief anyway, mostly. Stiles' spark makes whatever he does a little more potent, but low grade magic can be achieved by anyone and their mothers.

“It was the only safe space left in Beacon Hills once I couldn't go back to the house,” Derek answers after a long stretch of silence. Stiles feels bad, because he _knows._ It wasn't exactly a choice, even if it was a punishment in a way. “I know it's not ideal, but it's more defensible than the loft.”

Stiles had forgotten about the loft. Derek had lived there for a short time, pushing away people like his own dragon to the princess he was at the top of the tower. It had taken a nasty incident to bring him back to his Betas. That, and Cora.

She's still a fresh wound, so Stiles used to never bring her up in conversations. Now he wonders if that was the best idea, if Derek didn't so much shy away from the topic as felt he couldn't talk about it.

“After this,” Stiles starts, then loses his breath because it feels like too much. There's a dark wall in front of him, a future he's afraid to dwell on too much because it's so full of uncertainties still. But thinking about an _after_ , and possibly with Derek by his side -in any way he could want to be- it makes it a little more bearable. It shines a tiny light on the path, and Stiles believes illuminating the way one step at a time is a good start.

“After this,” he starts again, “I'm not sure I'll go back to college. I don't know...,” he hesitates when Derek turns curious eyes on him, because college had been all Stiles could talk about before leaving. “I don't know if things will go back to normal at some point or not, if I'll be able to go back to classes eventually without wanting to kill every student around as soon as I'm thirsty, or hungry, or whatever. It's pretty much the same, right?”

Derek doesn't say anything, lets Stiles get his thoughts in order. He's the only one to have ever given Stiles the time to do that, everyone else assuming that his talking fast means the words are all already in his brain, lined up and ready to go. The truth is that it's always been more of a realizing what comes out of his mouth a second after it does, because it's moving so fast in his head that it doesn't form in coherent thoughts, more like a stream he can't stop. So sometimes he needs to stop and consider what he's really trying to say before he takes the wrong road and starts on some seemingly unrelated topic.

“Maybe some day I'll go back to it, I don't know, but I think I need a break,” he says after a few seconds. “A real one, no studies, no thinking about the larger picture, what job I should get down the line, saving money for this or that. Where I should live to be close enough to the town but far enough that I can sleep.”

“You can't sleep?” Derek interrupts him.

Stiles looks at him and continues, because he doesn't want to explain right now that the first real night of sleep he'd had in years had been miles away in an unfamiliar bed, sharing a small room with a stranger, surrounded by noises and scents he couldn't recognize. It should have made his anxiety go haywire. But he'd woken up ten hours later, refreshed, and if work and classes never let him sleep that long again, the quality of sleep hadn't changed most of the time.

Beacon Hills emits a static that comes from layers upon layers of disturbed ground, accumulated supernatural energy and remnants from every creature that passed through town. A call from every magic thing to another like an excitement to be shared. Bad intentions, too, past murders, blood soaking up the soil deeper and sometimes older than trees' roots.

A sense of imminent danger, restlessness, all the time.

Stiles hadn't been able to feel all of that until he _knew_ , until becoming part of a Pack without any word needing spoken. Until the power inside of him, awaken, made him all too aware of the background noise.

He can't say this to Derek, because Derek wouldn't bear knowing he'd somehow been at root of the problem. Stiles could, and can, deal with it. It hasn't been so bad since turning to a vampire anyway, though Stiles doesn't know if it dulled his power of if his sense of danger comes from within at the moment.

“What I'm saying,” he starts again, “is that I want to travel for a while. Eat, pray, love or whatever, though touring America seems like a good beginning. Big country, no obligation to be stuck in a tiny space up in the air with hundreds of humans for hours,” he stops, nervous suddenly. “I was wondering.” He swallows, glances at Derek and then fixes his gaze on the painted wall in front of him. “Would you come with me? We could even go down to Argentina, look for Cora's Pack.”

The silence makes Stiles feel hot with embarrassment, but when he chances a look at Derek he doesn't see derision or this particular look that means _how do I say no to this?_ Instead, there's a quiet kind of consideration.

“I would love that,” Derek answers, freeing Stiles' frozen blood, but there's almost a question in his voice. Like he can't quite believe it, or like he's not sure where it's coming from. Maybe he wonders if Stiles is only saying this to be nice to him, or because he thinks they'll be dead soon anyway so it's not that big of a commitment to make. Actually, Stiles has no idea what Derek's tone means.

“You would?” he whispers, “Because I'm very serious, and I very much intend to stay alive whatever your answer may be. It's just–”

“I would,” Derek smiles as he cuts Stiles off. It sounds like a promise of so much more to Stiles, who remembers an echo of Derek's voice in his head as wolf's blood coursed through his own system. One step at a time.

“Okay,” Stiles breathes out. He smiles, then gets up and brushes his knees free of dust. “Lydia must love this place. I don't think she ever came here before but it's definitely not up to her standards.”

“Not ours either,” Erica shouts from the old train wagon where Stiles once held her while Derek broke her arm. Fun times.

“Not mine anymore,” Derek says under his breath, almost an afterthought for his own benefit. Stiles can't believe it either, how far Derek has come towards the light.

He almost regrets his invitation then, because it means dragging Derek through large distances away from home and balance, dealing with a new vampire who isn't very stable yet -though he wants to believe he's already far down the road of control. Look at him, he thinks, functioning normally.

He can't wait for the inevitable crash.

Then Rozenn seems to materialize from thin air. “You're getting weaker. You should not risk depletion so near an eventual attack,” she says like it's more of an inevitable attack than an eventual one. “You should drink.”

There, Stiles thinks, that's the first step to falling down again.

 

Everyone else gives him a wide berth, not because of apprehension but for Stiles' own comfort. He's sulking in a corner, pretending to need a minute when he just want to be forgotten by the world at large. Even Lydia only sends him half worried, half irritated glances. Rozenn prods at his consciousness to be let in, which doesn't really help. He supposes he should let her in. He does need to settle things with her.

He closes his eyes and lets the first wall fall down, the one that will let them make this weird telepathic contact that seems to come out of nowhere, but won't let her go unchecked inside his thoughts.

“ _Young one,”_ she says, just that, letting Stiles do _this_ at least on his own terms. If he'd been any more petty, he'd have ended the conversation right then, because she's the one that kept ringing the metaphorical bell of his brain.

“ _Will you help us fight?”_ he asks, because he doesn't doubt Rozenn would at least protect him, but the Pack?

“ _I find myself lacking in fighting skills,”_ she mentally chuckles, not a sound but a vague tickle. Stiles sees her faint smile from across the room, where she sits half in shadows.

“ _We all did, in the beginning,”_ he snaps. They were kids, they had no choice. _“How did you survive this long without ever fighting?”_

Rozenn seems to consider the question for a moment. _“I hid while the years rolled around without touching me. After my first child,”_ an image comes unbidden to Stiles mind, of a young girl in a flowy dress by the ocean, salt on tongue and dark hair escaping a low bun, a sad smile on her lips before blood gushes from her mouth and salt turns to copper. He reels back from the memory, almost cutting off the connection.

“ _After all of it,”_ blood everywhere and tears and madness, Stiles feels it, _“I went back to the field of my childhood. Humans had changed the landscape there but left alone the woods. They're very much attached to their fairies' lands, you see. So I made a home where the trees can sleep.”_

What does that even mean, Stiles wonders but won't ask. _“If you feel any responsibility for me, for what happened to me and the life I have to lead now because of you, you should help us fight.”_

Rozenn has that infuriating mysterious look on her face. _“I can only prepare you for it.”_

Stiles huffs out in frustration. There's no need for this conversation to go on. And he knows where she'll lead it to, and he just wants five more minutes before he has to– again. Feed on _Derek_. Or anyone else, though Stiles finds the idea even more difficult because he doesn't have the same kind of connection to them -how romantic of him. He thinks it's harder the second time, but also somewhat easier, and he's afraid of the day it'll just be trivial to him.

Might be a good thing, might be that he'll have become an amoral killer creature. He's never been the optimistic one, he can admit that much, Scott had all the sunshine covered.

He looks around at the others, Lydia looking at him, or rather reading him. Not only had she always been particularly observant, not only does her senses go now beyond human perception, but she also knows Stiles. He wants to check with her before doing anything, because she'll probably have some new theories or knowledge that will help him cope a little better.

He goes to get up and staggers sideways, confused about the dizziness that takes a hold of him since he didn't think he was that starved already. He doesn't have time to make a noise; pain explodes in his head, a black hole that swallows him whole, takes the world away from him before he can grasp any of it. He has no anchor, as he feels something being unraveled from the inside.

“What's happening?” he hears being shouted from underwater, where he's drowning, where he can't breathe anymore without filling his lungs with lead.

“Wh...ing...iles!” bad reception, he thinks vaguely as he floats away, he can't quite catch the other end of the conversation.

“The wards!” is the last thing he hears, complete and clear, so loud and sudden that it makes everything stop all at once.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **I love you all and I hope you're all alright and safe <3 <3**  
> I finally posted that fucking Voltron fic I said I'd post, like, four times since I started on City Trees  
> A part of his is stream-of-consciousness like *shrugs* hope you like it :3

In his more morbid years, driven by adolescence and grief, Stiles has done extensive research on death.

“What's happening?”

Some people call him obsessive; he likes to think he's passionate. Hyperfixation, when it's not doing awful things to his focus in classes, is kinda like a superpower -if only he could have control over the topic of interest.

“Stiles?”

So he's read it all: versions of the after-life, what a bullet does to a body, how lightning kills you, and quite a number of accounts of near death experiences.

“Answer me, please!”

He's pretty sure he's not dying, though the fact that he doesn't feel a thing is a bit worrying. Well, he doesn't feel the _physical_ pain at least, because he's sure as hell scared shitless by this. But even that, it's getting to him from a little while away– if he had to guess he'd say six foot five.

“Don't– Stiles? Do something!”

That's exactly the distance between his body, and where he's seeing it from.

 

He doesn't see himself falling. He's no stranger to fainting -don't tell Isaac- so he's used to the way vision goes first leaving only sound until that stops too. It's the weirdest thing, though, to blink and find himself above, the Pack crowding around him in a panic. Blood starts running from his nose and he so badly wants to wipe it off.

“Stiles!” Derek gets to him first and everyone lets him have some space. He hovers, a wild creature driven by this sense of loss he never managed to shake off. Ready for grief at any given time, but never prepared. Stiles supposes Derek had to deal with him dying once already, and not so far back in time that the wound's healed.

He'll hate himself for that later, even if he's well aware he had no choice in it and now has little to say in the matter of his own unconsciousness. He's not dead either, too, so there.

Derek has taken to lightly shaking Stiles in hopes of waking him, then turns to Rozenn and cries, “Do something!”

“It's the wards,” Lydia murmurs, and Stiles vaguely remembers her voice saying the same thing before he passed out completely but now he turns and sees for himself what's happening to his defenses.

The marks on the walls pulse with a sickly glow, brighter and brighter, faster and faster until every line explodes in white fire. The Pack recoils, but worst of all is how for a second Derek folds on himself and keens– he's not sure the others heard it but Stiles can feel it in the way his own heart breaks.

He's quickly distracted, though, by the fact that when he turns back to himself he sees his body shaking. It takes too long to figure it out, while the Pack puts Lydia to the back; Stiles is slightly hurt by that but he can't fault them.

Who knows what he's capable of from their perspective, and they have no idea what a vampire's loss of control over blood looks like. Also, it's not like he told any of them that Lydia doesn't...well, she doesn't smell human. He's pretty sure she's well aware, judging by the annoyed look on her face.

Oh. He's having a _seizure_. This is what the videos look like, he thinks guiltily, because though he never shared them back and actually tried to stop other from doing so, he watched Erica, human and small and breakable, on his phone. He couldn't turn it off once it started and he understood what it was, because _morbid obsessions_ and he used to wonder how it felt, if it was just like dying.

He never witnessed it first-hand until the train depot that one time, and until now on himself. He had dreams just like what he's seeing now: his back arching from the ground, the tendons of his neck standing out as his head is thrown back, the stillness of his chest. He notices now that there's blood coming out of his ears too.

He's no closer to knowing if it feels like dying because, well, he doesn't feel this, but it sure looks like it.

Stiles gets back the feeling of time passing when Rozenn kneels behind his head– it must have been less that a few seconds since Derek called to her, but watching himself being undone felt like an eternity.

His mouth opens in a silent scream. He sees them, then: the fangs. They're not as thin as Derek made it sound, but they're not...much, either. Just teeth, a little longer, a bit more sharp.

If this is the complete vampire look, it's not much. Werewolves get the whole changing thing, and depending on his mood Stiles finds it pretty cool or a whole lot ridiculous -don't tell Derek, but some nights he finds it sexy as hell. He supposes vampires have to blend in better to get close to their preys, so they can't stand out too much. He wonders, still, if his eyes weren't screwed shut would they look any different?

Would they change color like wolves' do, because he's killed, because he feels like draining humans to death and not freaking deers? Get a safe eye color, never age, go back to high school don't pass go don't collect two hundred? That sounds like a stupid idea, maybe it's the lack of oxygen talking.

Rozenn takes a deep breath under Derek's anxious eyes, and brings her hands to Stiles' head. When they make contact, he goes limp; he can't help but feeling relieved that it's over. It's distressing, he has to admit, to see his own body so tortured.

“What's happening?” Erica asks frantically, but Lydia puts an hand on her arm and reassures her.

“He's breathing, look. He's fine.”

“But for how long?” Isaac asks, a little breathless, looking at the wards who haven't stopped burning yet.

“They're tearing your mind apart.”

“What?” Stiles tries to say when he figures that Rozenn's voice comes from nowhere in particular but is definitely addressing him. No sound comes out of his mouth. No air. Right. “Who is?” he asks with his mind this time, like he does when he's using the telepathic bond between them. What a weird thing to have, he ponders now -largely too late to think about it.

“The witches. Destroying the wards would have been quite an achievement on its own, but they've decided to use it to attack you from the inside. They are powerful.”

Stiles had no idea that was even a possibility. He thought he could be something of an emissary, but there's loads more to learn before he gets there, huh.

“Like bad feedback. You're stopping them?”

“No. I am stronger so I shield you, but it won't last. You did ask me how I would protect you, didn't you? This is how.”

“You lied, right?” Stiles asks, a frown in his voice. “Because you said you don't know how to fight but that's bullshit, isn't it?” He gets flashes, if he pulls, yards and yards of tainted wool forming a massive tapestry, ready to be unwoven.

“Stop it!” she retorts, sharp. “There are things you don't understand!”

“Then make me!” he yells. This is not the time, really not; he glances at Derek anxiously rocking on his knees over him, but he can't stop the anger that's rising in him. “You intrude in my life and pretend you're here to help me, train me, make me survive, but you won't tell me anyth–” he stops suddenly. It's like the breath was punched out of him but virtually, a pain growing right below his heart– he hears himself moaning.

There's tears running down his temples and into his hair...he thought–

“We're almost out of time.”

“Oh my god,” he whispers, “the wards. If the wards fall– I...what do I do? What should I do?” he whines, mentally clutching at Rozenn's consciousness, begging her to give him an answer, tell him how to fix this. Because if the wards fall, then the hunter knows where they are, and they are defenseless. They could all die, surrounding him like he's something worth protecting, he can't–

And what does that mean for the negotiations? He did think these should've been over by now but they've heard no words. Are the others safe? Is his father?

“Help me,” he pleads, “you said you were here to help me! Do something!”

“Stiles. You're the only one who can fight back,” Rozenn says, but _how_? “Wake up!”

“I can't!”

“Wake up!” she screams, so loud it hurts and he sees his body convulse once. And then he falls.

 

Everything is fuzzy, he can't get his bearings. Every joint in his body hurts and he doesn't understand. The light is too loud; he's fallen into the sun and the void of space keeps him from screaming.

“Stiles!”

Where does the voice come from? Carried over by the wind, by his mind that made a wish so desperate; he doesn't want to be alone right now. This life he leads has never been without fear, without the knowledge that one day it would catch up to him. He'd just hoped it would have taken more time.

“Please,” someone pleads, bringing flashes of an dark alley, torn red skin and long dark hair, the smell of something -someone- that could make the pain stop. He never really got what instinct meant until now. It was a word used for mothers; animals and in-betweens. A whole load of bullshit for the most part, if you'd asked him before. An excuse.

He has crossed the fence and he's a creature driven by his genetic make-up now. A new born who hasn't had the chance to find another way to end the burning. So he has left the 'most part' land and has been thrown without ceremony where monsters live.

He swallows, throat tight, but he turns and sees people there looking at him like they know him. It doesn't make sense because he's in a big, bustling city since he started college and people in the street at night don't know him. Past the pain, he thinks it should make things easier because _instincts_ tell him he needs a whole life to steal; but past the mindlessness he's pretty sure it wouldn't be better to kill a complete stranger. All in all, it doesn't matter, because he searches for the reprieve he longs for and doesn't find it in these spectators to his hunt.

Until there's the faintest displacement of air, that he recognizes as coming from one of the vents. This place might be a dump and a useless one at that -there hasn't been a functioning railway in the city since before he was born- but it's still up to norms and regulations. So it comes from the street up there -isn't he supposed to be _in_ the street- not very busy but still seeing the occasional passer-by walking uptown.

Which is exactly who Stiles smells right this instant, and he's _famished_.

“Shit, hold him down!” he hears, but somehow he doubts it concerns him. He's halfway to the stairs when something heavy collides with his back and it's not a matter of strength he's just always been shit at keeping his balance. He goes down, hard. But he's fast and he's ready to get back up in a fraction of second.

If only three other pair of arms hadn't taken hold of him.

He struggles: don't they understand? Don't they get it, that he just needs this to make it _stop hurting_? He shakes them off once, twice, proving himself stronger and he feels satisfied by that in a primal way, but in the end they win and all he has left is to scream at them to let him go– oh, so he still knows how to form words, his human brain thinks, hysterical and faint.

“Can't you do something to help?” a voice yells over him but from a distance, not one of those pinning him to the ground. He writhes under them still, cheek scraping the floor as all he sees in the too-loud light is the concrete, not ready for complete defeat.

“He's too far gone, call to him,” a calm voice answers, enough of an oddity in all this madness that for a second he's startled into silence.

And then, shrill, all demanding, reaching into the far recesses of his mind: a scream of his name. Stiles can't breathe past the pull, a wave of him that can't resist where the tide takes him until he's drowned and dissolved in the water and formed again, different, the same, he can't breathe.

“Stiles,” a dreamed voice, desperate, says low into his ear. The hands around his body let up, just enough for him to turn on his side, to give his ribcage a chance to expend again. He gasps. “Stiles,” it repeats, flashes of dark hair but this time it looks like home. Stiles feels his head being pulled up to rest in the crook of someone's neck, a familiar scent enveloping him and making the tide recede just enough. Then, as if pained to ask this the voice adds in a whisper, “we need you to come back...I– I need you to come back. I'm here.”

And just before survival overrides the instinct to go for a too-far, better smelling blood, just before sinking his fangs in soft skin, Stiles thinks, _oh of course. Derek_. Anything, to protect him. Even hurting him on the way there.

 

What judges innocence?

Stiles walks into a forest bathed in blue mist, he knows his way even when something in him doesn't want to reach his destination. The color comes from a moon that Stiles has studied a lot in the past few years, trying to understand– what? He's not sure. The appeal, probably, the magic of it when to him it has always been a big round rock revolving a bigger one. The phases of it are nothing but shadows.

Once upon a time, he gave up believing in magic. It forced its way back into his life and he didn't like it one bit just as much as he lived for the thrill of it.

The color reminds him of blue eyes. Not human blue but flame blue, the hottest part of the fire. The one that sticks to the skin with guilt as glue: what judges innocence? he asks again.

Aside from a fucked up sense of justice and wrong; one where the judge and jury is the voice in your head telling you that you're the murderer even when you had no choice.

Once upon a time, Stiles was dead certain killing is different from murdering. He was never religious but it was a concept close to sin to him: killing is sometimes accidental, necessary, bad luck or mercy. It's forgivable; it's what his dad might have to live with at every call of his radio. He never thought anyone could brush the experience aside easily, but he did believe time could make reason win against emotions. The real sin is to take a life for pleasure, for gain, just because.

It never applied to Stiles, of course. Hypocrisy isn't always for the benefit of the hypocrite. From the second his mother died while he kept watch, while he was supposed to keep her safe and comfortable, while he was talking and talking to chase away the lack of recognition in her eyes even though she said she hated the sound of his voice (dad says she still loves him, but she says he's not Stiles). From that moment, he was a killer, but it was a sin, and it could never be forgiven.

This is what the blue makes him think about.

It's a feeling that echoes through the trees until he's standing next to a gigantic stump, radiating a power that he's hated for years. The Nemeton isn't evil, nor is it benevolent. It has no choice, it just _is_ , and people make what they want of that. But Stiles can't help the resentment for every life taken -Heather- because of that thing.

The feeling echoes and echoes in quiet sobs under the roots. Stiles isn't Stiles anymore but he's a young boy holding a girl he loves in his arms as she dies. As she's dead.

Sometimes, the innocent isn't only the killed but also the killer. Maybe that's who the blue grieves for too as it lights up in Derek's eyes. Derek, Stiles thinks, would have seen his eyes turn blue even if his victim had been far from innocent: it's just who he is down to the core. A kind soul, a soft center surrounded by rings and rings marking up the years up to the thick bark that protects him.

Derek's heart is benevolent, but still, people made what they wanted of that too.

So flammable.

Stiles recognizes this now. It's a dream but it's memories and he feels like Derek is trying to tell him something though it, now that they've done this before. Now that they both know this weird mind-meld is a thing.

It means he's taking life from Derek. He just– before he lets go, before he wakes up and uses his strength to protect all of them if he finds a way to, he wants to give something back. Not just fragments that his panic pushes into Derek's mind, but a gift of himself.

It's one of his earliest memories. It's a song with half forgotten lyrics but that he'd recognize anywhere, chords written in every nerves of his body. A quiet day back when his mother loved Stiles and he was Stiles, and she was playing it in the car because he gave her the cassette with insistent hands before pulling her cardigan over his head. It smelled like her and the light through the purple fabric was tamed and sounds were muffled. He had no idea why it was so soothing, this warm cocoon.

And then they stopped somewhere, and she got out of the car, he heard her, soft steps on gravel and the click of the door on his side before a gust of fresh air. The delighted screams of children in the distance. She barely finished unbuckling him before he was out and running, her calling out to him to slow down, wait for her, doesn't he want his bike? she laughed. The grass was high and the sun gentle and he never had that good of a balance so he fell down hard.

“Are you alright little one?” he heard a soft voice ask him, and he looked up into tender brown eyes and for a second his child's mind saw the otherness in her. She smiled when he nodded; he was used to falling down and was of good spirits about it. He didn't hurt, well not that much but scrapes were badges of honor.

“Stiles, you okay?” his mother, breathless, then to the stranger, “Thanks!”

“Don't worry about it, I know how it is,” she said, but she sounded like she didn't exactly know how it was. “I have my own running around somewhere,” she laughed. Where she pointed, Stiles saw a big girl -so old she had to be an grown-up Stiles thought- chasing a small girl -already a buddy in Stiles' mind- chasing an in-between boy crying for help. Around them, other kids cheered them on, some with scrapes on their knees.

Buddies, his heart said, and he'd never been shy -too trusting his dad said- so he ran to them to show his banged up knee and last-week scab on his elbow.

It's not until far later in the future, seeing a picture on Derek's bookshelf, that Stiles remembered this. They met once before, and Stiles ran with wolves long before they were parts of his life. He chased after Cora and could never catch her, and when he fell down for the third time that afternoon Derek crouched next to him and put a band-aid on it before helping him get up.

He remembers the nice boy, softer than his sisters and quieter than his cousins, who sat with him while he drank his orange juice. They shared cookies and he listened while Stiles told him about his elbow but there was something in his eyes, his bright blue-green eyes -human blue- a little like longing.

“I don't have cool elbow stories,” the boy said looking at his scarless skin; Stiles didn't know his name until seeing the picture on the bookshelf, because children don't care about buddies' names.

But he remembers telling him, “You're pretty cool though!” and smiling and then telling him about the tooth he lost.

And Derek listened, up until Stiles' mom called his name and he had to go home and they promised to play together again but that promise wouldn't be held until years and years later.

Stiles doesn't know why he didn't tell Derek this.

He can still smell the grass on the wind sometimes. Fresh and wet and dripping red and–

He's on the edge of a beach. A girl is knee deep in the water. She turns to him. “Wake up,” she says, and all at once he sees all her life and forgets it in the same instant. Her name was Maewenn before she went mad, before he had to watch her be consumed and die– blue flames of guilt, an old fire turned so cold with age it burns and hurts different.

He blinks his eyes open, gasps a breath full of copper, and something still stabs at his heart from the inside. A sigh against his skin makes him turn to see Derek, still awake. Smiling that sweet smile that listened to Stiles' stories. Beautiful eyes, be it human or werewolf blue.

No more innocents caught in the blast radius of him, Stiles thinks, but thinks in Derek's and Rozenn's and his own voice. He's not sure how but he's sure of one thing: he has wards to fix, and witches to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While rereading chapter 13 I saw that line that went _"he's not a fan of the idea of drinking sewer rats"_ and I thought THIS ONE'S FOR YOU TYRANNUS BASILTON GRIMM-PITCH  
> 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rozenn, a few chapter ago: This hunter is super duper smart  
> Me: Wait, fuck. _I'm_ not clever  
> The times of day, varying wildly from chapter to chapter: Yeah, we gathered u_u
> 
> People! I really hope you're doing well and you're safe! <3 This chapter feels a bit wonky to me, but I hope you like it and I can give you at least a bit of good vibes with this update! Forgive my garbage english, my brain is...well. You know. *shrugs*  
> One or two chapters left for the fight, and then it's on to the fluffy ending <3  
> Enjoy! :)

Stiles notices, but doesn't dwell, on how the Pack seems to give him a wide berth before composing themselves. There's no time to be hurt by their– he hopes it's not fear. He can deal with wariness, but not fear.

“Don't think too highly of yourself,” Erica grumbles, hitting him on the shoulder while on her way to sit down; there's a scratch on her cheek that is knitting itself more slowly than it should. Stiles has no clear memory of the struggle, nor of having claws. At least, having bitten Derek, he can rest assured that whatever vampires secrete isn't incompatible with werewolf blood, so it can't harm any of them.

It sits uneasy in him though, because he didn't even think of that before.

Don't think too highly of himself, Erica said. Is it her way of telling him they're not afraid of him?

He doesn't answer, simply smiles at her before turning to Lydia. Time is of the essence. “Any idea?” he asks her.

Right now, he's riding the high of having just eaten -he doesn't dare throwing more than glances towards Derek to make sure he's fine- but he's still feeling something digging at him from the inside. It hurts, but distantly now; maybe because he's full of energy, he can hold it at bay more easily than before. Whatever the witches are doing though, they're still chipping at his defenses and he needs to act fast before he's left exhausted and ready to collapse again.

Stiles knows _a lot_ about magic. When Deaton stayed cryptic about his spark because Stiles refused to become an official emissary, and the vet told him the topic was too secret to be passed on anyway else than orally, Stiles did his own research.

It's not well documented, but he found enough to draw his own conclusion with a bit of experimentation. The side effect of digging through tons of grimoires was picking up a thing or two about magic along the way.

But still, Stiles knows in times of crisis there's no better brain power than his and Lydia's knowledge combined. And if Stiles knows a lot about magic, it's nothing next to Lydia.

“Witches' magic overlap with what you can do. You need to use that.”

Stiles looks at the wards, still pulsing in time with the pain inside of him. He glances at Rozenn, face unreadable, and takes a deep breath. “Bad feedback, huh,” he mutters.

Magic can be done by anyone who knows the possibility is there, but it takes passion and maybe some predispositions for anything high-level. Witches, with intensive training, learn to borrow energy from their surroundings for their spells.

Stiles could've learned to do that to, but for one he wasn't very good at it and with the kind of life he was living he didn't want to rely on a power that could be taken away at the first bite. There's a reason werewolves and the like are never witches too.

A spark though, it's something else. It's belief. It's the will to protect his own; this is why he can still make wards even though he's cut off from the possibility of doing magic now he's not human anymore. He has it in his blood, a whole other kind of potential.

And, also, it's secret enough that the people attacking him have no idea of what he's capable of -he's still learning everyday himself.

“Focus on the foreign energy that comes from your wards,” Lydia says, “and...,” she shrugs. “Scream?”

“I had higher expectations from you than that,” Stiles chuckles.

Then he sobers up, and centers himself like he learned to do. Like Derek taught him to do after many, many unsuccessful attempts at meditation. He spares a thought to cling to every memory of Derek, and the way their lives are entangled on a cellular level inside of him right now.

He goes straight to the pain, sinks into it, lets it become white noise that takes over his senses; right there, next to the link between his faith and his protections, there's something else.

He follows it. It's a different feeling than when he was having an out of body experience, moments before; it's almost exhilarating. Like a hunt. He could lose himself in it.

A presence tingles the edge of his consciousness, and he feels safe suddenly, cradled. _Rozenn_. She won't let him be led astray.

The closer he gets to the energy of his wards, the hotter it seems to get, a mad fly towards the sun. Except the wards are his own, and he believes it. He can't be hurt by them. And his targets are on the other side. He stops on the edge. He _can_ do this, he tells himself. Everyone is counting on him.

So he steps through.

 

So they made a mistake, actually. It's not witches; not attacking Stiles anyway. It's only one, and doesn't that make her almost hopelessly way more powerful than him.

He can't reach her yet, but he can feel her presence like he's a faraway radio receiving a fragmented frequency. He needs to do more that this, and he has to find a way to make her back off. It's not gonna be easy. He stays at a safe distance for now, assessing.

“Find her anchors,” a voice echoes around him. Rozenn. “The Banshee says, find her source.”

Stiles' mind whirls around, flowing. It's kind of weird, seeing without seeing. A void, impressions of the world flashing in time with the same pulses as his wards, coming from the witch but also from himself. The hues of a deep forest seem to be swallowing a bright fire.

It's her, eating away at him.

Find her source; he has to get closer. As he approaches, the stabbing feeling he got at the worst of the attack makes itself known again, he's not sure he can–

“Breathe,” Rozenn says. He can't. He's not a body anymore. He could drift away if the witch noticed him and swatted at him like at an annoying fly.

 _Breathe_ , says a feeling inside of him. It's like a summer breeze and the smell of sun burnt grass, and in an electric instant, Stiles feels weighted. Derek, he thinks. He doesn't know how he knows, but Derek bridges the distance between them and ties Stiles to the physical world. He can't get lost like this. He's not afraid anymore, he knows he'll find his way back. He's– _oh_. He could laugh, if he had a body.

He's _anchored_.

A part of him says, _you already knew_ , but he ignores it to get back to the task at hand.

Stiles, at heart, is a protector. He'll go on the offensive if he has to, with a bat covered in sigils, with self-defense classes, with everything he's got in him. But he'll only ever fight to protect. That's what he's got to hold onto, to pour into his intent.

“You cannot incapacitate her. Focus on making her sever the connection for now.”

He'll try. He has to believe that he can.

 _I'm here_ , seems to say Derek's presence. It's pushing against something in him– a jolt, and a barrier comes loose; maybe it's through Derek's blood or through the bond that links Stiles to the Pack or it could be both. Their strengths, all of the Pack's, join his and Stiles feels himself grow until he thinks he could explode. He's multitudes.

There's no trying and having to believe. He can beat this witch without tip-toeing around her.

He charges at her.

 

And they collide.

 

It only takes a second; Stiles is thrown back into his body like his soul was catapulted there. Arms catch him, a safe scent cradling him before he realizes he was just saved from falling over by Derek; it's very damsel-in-distress. He doesn't hate it.

He loses himself for a fraction of a moment, all the way down into Derek's eyes. It makes him lose his breath until someone clears their throat and he can let it out in a shaky exhale.

“So?” Boyd asks at the same time as Isaac exclaims, “What the hell was _that_?”

“She was–” Stiles croaks out, then straightens up to turn to the others. Lydia raises an eyebrow at him that he chooses to ignore. “She was somewhere in the Preserve I think. I sensed trees or something like that.”

“That's super helpful,” Isaac pipes up but Stiles simply gives him the finger and continues.

“I managed to make her back off, I don't think she was expecting this.”

“What's this, exactly?” Lydia asks, but her tone suggests she's already guessed.

“Young Stiles has found strength in his Pack,” Rozenn says.

“I think I pulled on the bond a bit to, like, head-butt her,” Stiles glances at Rozenn, “figuratively. Well,” he shrugs, “literally mind-butt her.”

“Simple as that?” Derek sounds more worried than doubtful. It does look like Stiles didn't do much and still managed to defeat someone powerful. If only it was this straightforward.

“He Skywalkered it,” Erica says, a smile on her lips but her tone serious. “Is it gonna work again?”

“Certainly not,” Rozenn narrows her eyes at Stiles, “he had the advantage of surprising her. But she will surely not try this again. They must have other plans.”

“It was a bit anticlimactic anyway,” Erica says while Stiles thinks back on what just happened.

“Don't jinx it, it's not over yet,” Isaac answers her.

“There's three of them,” Stiles raises his head to look at them.

He can't really explain it, it was sort of like when he's drinking Derek's blood and can see memories. A connection was made when he hit the witch's power, and though it was torn away almost immediately there's still these...imprints in his mind's eye.

“How can you tell?” Lydia takes a step closer.

“A feeling,” he waves his hand around, tries to remember anything else.

“Well,” she sniffs, crosses her arms “welcome to the vague feeling club then.”

He closes his eyes; three of them. He's dead certain of that, because the thought of her partners was accompanied with a sense of sacred, a symbol of the Threes -just like the Triskel.

There was trees, towering above her.

There was–

 _That was unexpected_.

Stiles yelps and clutches at his head as something tries to force its way in. It's the same witch, he recognizes her essence.

“What's wrong now?” he hears Derek say in a panicked voice, but he can't answer as he hears something else.

 _We have something of yours,_ it's said with contempt, and this is how Stiles understands that they're not just allies of circumstances of the hunter, they're believers. _Come and get it_.

Then an image in a flash, and the presence is gone.

Stiles gasps.

“What happened?”

It's not Stiles who answers, it's Rozenn. She must have been able to hear all of that, or sensed Stiles' gut wrenching fear. “They have your friends,” she says, detached, “and his father.”

“Wh– what? Who?”

Stiles turns to the others, a burning rage in his heart. “The hunter. He has the others.” He looks at Derek. “At your house.” They must have located it through the wards. Instead of protecting...

He can still see what the witch showed him, clearly. Scott, Allison, Chris and...and his dad. Unconscious in the living room of Derek's house.

No doubt the hunter has traps all around for Stiles, to kill him rather than capture him. The asshole doesn't even try to make him give himself up to save the others.

Not that Stiles would've. He has a new determination in him, and the anger to go with it. He won't let this man get the better of him, and he definitely won't let himself be killed when he knows that if this guy didn't respect the Argents, he'll probably be after the Pack next.

It's hard, not falling down the path of thinking his life is worth less, that he should sacrifice himself for everyone else's sake and hope they'll be safe if he's dead. He knew already that choosing to live is difficult, because it means fighting and taking a risk to lose. It's agonizing, and he's been the one to survive before. He kind of hates the idea.

But he sees it in everyone's eyes, and he remembers it in his dad's. The will for Stiles to try.

So to hell with it. Even if this was the worst case scenario and Stiles avoided thinking about its possibility until now, he'll try. He won't be taken down by this man that calls himself a monster hunter. He's better than that. And he has every intention of saving his family, too.

“We need a plan,” he snarls, and he sees Lydia smiling her mischievous smile. She must be scared too, scared to have to scream. But she shows only strength. She nods at him.

“Between all of us, they won't stand a chance,” she declares. It might not be exactly true, but they've always beaten the odds so far. What's one more time?

 

It's four hours until dawn. Stiles feels the pinprick of doubt inside of him, one that he doesn't completely understands himself. He knows what Rozenn said: vampires' weaknesses are psychosomatic in a deadly way. But still. There's things that can't be all myth, and no creature is invincible. If it's so easy to hunt vampires until they really are not much more than scary stories to keep children from wandering too far, they must have more weak points than simply what their minds provide.

So he wants to wrap everything up before the day breaks. It won't be easy, and their plan takes into account that everything will probably go to shit before they can gain the upper hand. They're walking into it all but blind, so they expect things to be bumpy as hell. They're prepared for it, as much as they can in short notice.

Their biggest joker is Rozenn. She's positive the hunter can't know she's here, and Stiles kind of left her no choice but to actively participate in this.

She came here to train him, or so she said, because this guy was on his way to kill him. And she can't expect the couple of days interspersed with mental breakdowns they had to be enough. If she really means to protect him, it'll take more than what she's given so far.

Also, he had no qualms to guilt-trip her by mentioning the memories he saw coming from her earlier. About the girl on the beach.

Which bring them at the moment before leaving. And Stiles crossing his arms and saying, “No.”

“Stiles...,” Lydia says, but he turns to her and gives her a glare that makes her sigh.

“You are still young and you already lost a lot of energy with what you did just now, you should listen to them,” Rozenn tells him, and by the look on her face she's taking pleasure in guilt-tripping him back.

“I will not–” Stiles shouts, then takes a deep breath and starts over at normal volume, “I will not watch as everyone, like, pours some blood in a glass for me to drink in front of them. It's gross, and I don't–”

“Dude,” Isaac interrupts him, “you've done way worse in terms of gross,” he snorts, not deterred by the murderous look Stiles sends his way.

“Plus,” Erica pinches Isaac's side so hard he yelps, “we've been very gross too in the beginning. Isaac even ate a raw rat once.”

“I did not!”

“It was more of a field mouse,” Boyd adds, betraying no amusement on his face.

“I don't–” Stiles tries one more time, but he's already pretty much given up. They're determined, and he can't say it's not the best thing to do because he can feel he's way more tired than he should be when he drank blood not even an hour ago. He glances at Derek, who gives him a slight nod and a smile. “I just–” Stiles sighs one last time, “Okay, alright. Let's do this,” he gestures at them. “I'm not watching, and you're not watching either,” he grumbles, making everyone chuckle.

Derek, who was outvoted as a blood donor when they were discussing doing this, approaches him. “Don't worry, they'll be fine,” he says softly. “We'll all be fine.”

“Do they know I'll see their deepest secrets?” Stiles huffs out.

“You what?” Isaac yells in the background, but Stiles ignores him.

“I'm pretty sure it only works when he's drinking directly from the source,” Lydia answers to placate him, having no way to be certain of that.

“I hope she's wrong and I get new blackmail material,” Stiles whispers to Derek.

“Don't forget they have way worse on you,” he chuckles back.

Stiles smiles, then turns more serious. “I'm sorry though. I didn't know, granted, but it wasn't part of the deal that I get to, like,” he gestures, “mind probe you.”

“I don't mind,” Derek answers, not looking at him. Stiles marvels at this, because Derek is guarded even around the Pack, though not as much as he used to be. But he lets Stiles have pieces of him he never gave anyone else. Derek blushes, then adds, “I, uh...,” he stammers, “I like it. And you...,” he looks at Stiles, smiling, “you gave me something too.”

Stiles loses his words. So many years dancing around, being afraid, and they knew all this time that there was _something_ between them. They were just both so sure it was artificial for the other, that no one could really... _love_ them back. It makes Stiles breathless.

These past few days were the worse time to slowly realize how wrong they had been. Stiles has kept himself from analyzing what he felt while drinking Derek's blood, both because it still gave him chills to think about what he had to do and because he had -and still has- so much on his mind already. So much to deal with, again.

But there's no mistaking the love that flowed from Derek's veins to his; and if a door opened between them then Derek must have felt Stiles' feelings too.

“I'm just...,” Stiles croaks out, “I was worried you were just...feeling responsible, like you _had_ to do this for me. That it wasn't really a choice.”

Derek frowns. “It wasn't.” Stiles freezes, but Derek continues. “But I wasn't _forced_ into helping you. When you help any of us, would you say you did it just because you felt obligated to?” Derek asks, turning to face Stiles, “Or because there was no alternative in your heart than to be there for the ones you love?”

Stiles has nothing to say to that. He can just look at Derek and wonder what he did to deserve this man in his life.

“Um,” a voice snaps him back into the present, “sorry to interrupt, but we're done and we really need to start moving.”

Stiles turns to the others, looks ranging from disgusted to gleeful -he kind of forgot they would hear this conversation. On the wonky table between them, there's a...”Is that a travel mug?”

Lydia shrugs. “I'm always prepared.”

Stiles stares into the void for a second, wondering how this is his life, then makes gimme hands at them before grabbing the damn thing. When he looks up at the Pack and he catches them looking back, he turns his back to them. He feels queasy doing this, which is stupid because he literally sank his fangs into Derek's neck twice now; but one could argue it was always in the heat of a very urgent moment.

This is a little different.

He takes a deep inhale. Just like taking bad medicine. He holds his breath. And goes for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Stupid Ramble Time! I delete them as I go so no one can ever have proof that I'm an idiot *rubs hands* hehehe  
> So like okay, I've been watching this drama– I know, but hear me out okay? It's called Crash Landing on You and it has the second highest ratings ever for kdramas and it's _so good_ seriously. It has fake/pretend, pinning, found family, just enough suspense, the secondary couple fucked me up (like in almost every drama I ever watched tbh), and SO MUCH MORE! Fate! Love! Humor! It's so good I just finished it tonight and I'm! (I also watched Hwayugi, biggest disappointment T.T didn't like the ending, especially for the secondary characters cause god knows I stopped caring for the mains at some point)  
> Also, please be proud of me because I'm currently correcting my biggest failure ever: I'm reading FMA. Historically, I've started reading it at least 6 different times, got as far as volume 6 before? Stopping for whatever reason? And I've started and stopped watching Brotherhood just as much. And it's super weird because I _love_ FMA? Anyway, once I caught up with bnha I thought there was no better time than now, because once I start work again god knows I won't read as much as I want to.  
> Also also (and then I'm stopping), I've found the love of my life (seriously): the OneNote app <3 I had a hard time preparing for that one original story I want to write because there's a LOT of worldbuilding and somehow pen and paper was too messy cause I have to go back and add and scratch and *sighs* and a text document was too restrictive in format? So anyway, I love it and I'm having the time of my life outlining the shit out of this story (ironically, I feel like as soon as I start writing it I'll be like meh and give it up to go in WIP limbo forever).  
> Anyway, love you all <3 stay safe <3 
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://kinsbournescream.tumblr.com/tagged/ana-writes-sometimes)  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> **comments are the garlic to my bread which keep the unmotivated vampire away (does that make sense?)**


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